I'd Arrest You if I Had Handcuffs
by taylorpotato
Summary: A series of vignettes involving Lestrade, Sherlock, and a certain pair of handcuffs. Eventual arrest fetish smut and numerous kinks we don't need to discuss in polite company. Pre-cannon.
1. Meeting

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

* * *

The first time Greg ever put Sherlock Holmes in handcuffs was, coincidentally, the first time they met.

It had been a Friday evening. Greg remembered because it was near the beginning of his "separation" with his wife, and he'd just dropped off their daughter for the weekend. He was tired, hungry, more than a bit cross, and he wanted to be anywhere but standing in a dark alley, in the rain, looking at a mess of a crumpled body.

"This is the third one this month isn't it? Serial killer, I'd wager," Anderson sipped coffee out of a hot thermos.

"Don't say that," Greg groaned. A serial killer panic was really the last thing he needed.

The body had been sliced up with a scalpel, like all the others. Heart, brain, and lungs removed, then pushed out the second story window. The flat was taped off, but it had been empty. The killer had broken in. It was all a bloody disaster, and Greg had no leads.

After examining the body and the surrounding area, Greg had gone into the apartment complex. Walked up the stairs, down the hall, to what was supposedly a quarantined area. But as he'd stepped across the threshold of the flat, he'd heard a noise.

Squeaky shoe on plastic covering—he was on instant alert. Gripping his nightstick, scanning the room.

He'd seen the dark shape move in the corner of his eye, and he'd tackled it, pinned it to the ground, face down, wrists behind the back handcuffs slapped on before he had time to breathe.

The man was tall, and wearing a wool coat, and he had curly dark hair, and he was struggling violently.

"Let me go you imbecile!" The man had a rather low, pleasing voice. Or it would have been pleasing if he hadn't been yelling so cattishly.

"You're under _arrest_," Greg spat. "And how can you call me an imbecile when you're the one that's just returned to the scene of a crime?"

"I'm not the serial killer, you moron! _She's_ about to get on a train to France. We have to stop her."

Greg had sat on the man for perhaps three minutes. In that time, the man (Sherlock Holmes was his actual name, not a fake one like Greg had thought) berated him thoroughly. He knew a lot details about the case, which really did not help his argument that he wasn't the killer. Because he wasn't in the mood to fight, Greg let the man up, still firmly holding the cuffs, and placed a call down to the train station. They stopped a certain Matilda Rorke from leaving the country and both she and Sherlock were hauled in for questioning.

As it turned out, Sherlock was right. She broke down almost immediately. Saying she was so sorry, she'd just dropped out of Med School because she'd fixated on vivisections. She hadn't really wanted to hurt anyone. Just couldn't stop herself.

After alienating everyone at the Yard through a long tirade about how he was astounded that they seemed to manage walking with the IQ's of primitive single-cell organisms—Sherlock left his card on Lestrade's desk.

When he returned home, at an awful hour of the morning, Greg privately wondered whether or not Sherlock Holmes was actually a human. He'd been rather caught off guard by that face, with the wide blue eyes, pouty lips and frankly startling cheekbones. His features were the expression of perfect innocence one minute, and condescending hatred the next. Greg found it frightening and intriguing in the same breath.

* * *

_I know it's short, and quite lacking in smut, but trust me. We're gearing up for real depravity. I just intend to take my own sweet time about it :)_

_These will be going up every Sunday once things get rolling, but I'll be posting Chapter 2 on Thursday, just because I've given you so little to go on. Think of this as the first potato chip of many. An experiment, if you will._

_Cheers!_


	2. Crime Scene

_Fair warning: drug references/use. This warning shall apply to all future chapters until I state otherwise._

* * *

The second time Greg put Sherlock Holmes in handcuffs, it was once again because he showed up at a crime scene. But this time it was different, because Greg had asked him to come and Sherlock was high as a kite.

To be fair, it was a bit difficult to tell the difference. But at that point, Sherlock had been helping with cases for about three months, and Greg had never seen him act quite so manic. He'd gotten out of the cab in front of the house rather unsteadily. Traveling with strange, jerky movements.

He'd given the garden, and the body a cursory glance and then he began shouting, waving his arms vaguely like he was constantly astounded by the fact that he had limbs. His pupils were tiny pinpricks and he had a dazed look on his face.

After allowing him to dismantle the crime scene, Anderson, and most of the team respectively, Greg had pulled him aside.

"Sherlock," he'd hissed, "are you on something?"

"If I were, I'd be an idiot to tell y_ou_ about it, wouldn't I? I solved your bloody case. That's all you care about."

He didn't know how it happened, but suddenly his fingers were wrapped around Sherlock's surprisingly ropey bicep. He could feel the ripples of muscle even under the layers of Sherlock's coat.

"You're an idiot anyway. Showing up to a crime scene, surrounded by police officers while you're strung out on god knows what—"

"None of them have noticed," Sherlock snapped, trying to pull away. "Let go of me this instant."

Greg did not let go. "Tell me what you're on or I'm going to take you into custody."

It seemed to happen very quickly. Sherlock yanked himself away. Greg lost his grip on Sherlock's arm and got a hold of his jacket instead. And then Sherlock's fist collided with the solid muscle of Greg's abdomen.

The older man doubled over in pain. Sherlock did not run away. He simply stood there, with wide eyes, as if he'd only just become aware of the fact that he'd assaulted a police officer while on an _impressive_ amount of cocaine.

Before anyone else could do something about it, Greg pushed Sherlock up against the wall of the house, cuffed him, and dragged him to the squad car. Sherlock didn't really resist, though he did complain about having to sit in the back. Greg threw him in the drunk-tank to detox and then let him off with a warning.

Not that anybody was surprised Sherlock didn't get into more trouble than that. Sherlock solved crimes like clockwork. He was quick, efficient, and never wrong. It was worth it to look the other way on a few possession charges compared with all the criminals he was putting away.

There weren't any other reasons Greg was being lenient on him. Especially not reasons revolving around the way Greg would occasionally find himself staring at Sherlock's mouth while he was talking... and later have no recollection of anything Sherlock had said. That only happened every once in a while. Nothing to make a big deal about. Except sometimes Sherlock would catch him at it, and he'd smile, and raise his eyebrows, and really—that probably wasn't a good thing. But there wasn't much to be done about it, besides ignore it, and hope it would go away.

* * *

_And there I go again. Not giving you any smut. Don't worry. The first little hint of it is going up on Saturday :)_

_Till then, darlings._


	3. Drugs Bust

Greg didn't like having to do drugs busts on Sherlock's flat. The first time he'd done it, the way Sherlock had looked at him made his stomach turn, and try to cringe in on itself. It was a desperate measure. Sherlock had shown up high to crime scenes twice more, and people were starting to ask questions.

But when Sherlock first opened the door, and his face blanched, it felt like Greg's heart had dropped out through his stomach.

He was used to Sherlock barging in, wrecking things, fixing them, insulting everybody, and being generally insufferable before barging back out. Sherlock was a man in constant control. But when his eyes fixed on the drug squad—Sherlock looked utterly helpless.

It had only been for a moment. Greg had seen the actual _fear_ flash across his face. The same thing he saw in every criminal's eyes when they knew there was nowhere to run. Of course, Sherlock had reverted into yelling and acting indignant very quickly. But it had been an obvious defense mechanism.

He'd stayed relatively calm when they'd found a small bag in the kitchen, sealed in a mason jar under the sink. But he hadn't really thrown a fit until they'd gone for his bedroom. Sherlock had stood in the doorway, and turned all his shouting directly at Greg, saying there were no drugs just _private_ things.

Of course, they were obligated to look when Sherlock said that. Greg managed to talk Sherlock down from hysteria by promising he'd look himself. Sherlock just went and sat on the couch, utterly listless.

It hadn't taken Greg long to find what Sherlock had been so upset about. It was a wooden chest in the corner of his closet. When Greg opened it, he'd tried not to gasp. It was full of dildos—big ones—and a ball gag, and padded leather cuffs, and a dog collar, and a set of horse whips, and all manner of high-end bondage gear.

Greg closed the lid of the chest quietly, and informed the rest of the drug squad that they were done. He took the mason jar of cocaine, and told Sherlock to get his bloody act together. Sherlock did not respond.

Of course, Sherlock got a written warning, but no real consequences were carried out. Things reverted back to their normal order soon enough.

Except the contents of that chest haunted Greg's dreams. He'd wake up in the middle of the night with a start—jolted out of sleep by a falling sensation, accompanied by the imagined echoing sound of a riding crop whistling through the air to make contact with pale skin. And when he saw Sherlock the next day, he sometimes couldn't help imagining what he'd look like with that thick leather collar wrapped around his elegant, long neck.

* * *

_Teehhee. I'm such a tease. I'll see you on Tuesday :)_


	4. My Safeword is Vivaldi

"My safeword is Vivaldi." Sherlock said it almost conversationally. And he'd smiled, as Greg choked on the sip of coffee he'd been taking.

"Sorry?" Greg spluttered.

"My safeword. Obviously, you've fixated on the little toy box you found in my flat, as you've avoided it the past two drugs busts you and your team have preformed. You also stare at my wrists all the time, like you're remembering what they look like wrapped in metal."

Greg glanced around. They were standing in front of a large townhouse that was covered in police tape. The investigation was mostly finished, but people were still milling around. There was a chance someone could overhear them.

What would they think was going on? _Dear lord_. It wasn't like he didn't get enough shit already for bringing Sherlock Holmes in on investigations. He did _not_ need people to think that they were shagging.

"If you wanted to see me cuffed again, all you'd need to do is ask, _inspector_," Sherlock licked his lips. "No need to keep finding excuses to barge into my flat and look through my things."

"I'm looking for _drugs_, Sherlock." Lestrade ruffled. "If you stopped getting high, I'd stop having a reason to sweep your flat for illegal substances."

"Come now, Lestrade, that's only part of it. You also enjoy having that power over me. The power to say whether I really get in trouble or not. It turns you on to see me helpless"

Greg's face was going increasingly red. This was not a conversation he wanted to have. Especially not with certain ridiculous, pompous, consulting detectives.

Sure, maybe Greg's love life had been a little slow lately—as it tended to be in the midst of a nasty divorce. Maybe, late a night, he lay in his bed and thought about Sherlock fucking himself on those giant dildos, with a choke chain around his neck. All sweaty pale skin and wayward dark curls. Whimpering breathily, and writhing about. Once—all right, twice—maybe Greg had found himself moaning out Sherlock's name as he came in his own hand.

But that did not mean he was insane enough to think that a sexual relationship, or even a one-night-stand, with Sherlock Bloody Holmes was a good idea.

"Finding cocaine in your flat does not turn me on," Greg huffed.

"No… but the thought of handcuffing me to a bed does." A small smirk slowly spread across the taller man's face.

"Are you coming onto me Sherlock?" Greg raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was an incredulous manner. "Because that would be highly inappropriate."

"But it wouldn't be boring."

"Stop it."

Sherlock pursed his lips, but somehow he still looked smug. It was oddly disconcerting.

* * *

_Oh... the fun is just about to begin. I don't think Lestrade can hold out for much longer. See you lovely people on Friday :)_


	5. Think Over the Implications

_Fair warning: the smut has arrived. Also, sadism and masochism lurk here._

* * *

Greg was sitting on his sofa, eating Chinese take away, and pondering whether or not he could really go to sleep when his mobile rang. The number was blocked.

"Hello?" He answered skeptically. It was almost 22:00 on a Tuesday evening. Who would be calling at this hour?

"This is my private mobile," Sherlock's voice dripped out of the speaker silkily. "I don't use it for the work. Only for drugs. I think I have the numbers of half the major dealers in the city stored on here."

Greg let out a small groan. "Are you daring me to confiscate that phone from you?"

"I'm bored," Sherlock paused, "perhaps I'd even give you a hint to where I usually hide this particular mobile if you get over here quickly. But this is a one night only offer. If you come looking for it tomorrow, I promise you'll never find it."

"So you want me to come and search your flat for a phone that would put me in contact will all of your dealers… right now?" Greg sighed.

"It's been at least a month since you last did a drugs bust. I'm starting to feel a bit neglected, Lestrade."

"I thought you hated the drugs busts," Greg snorted.

"Come now. I know you're dull—but I thought this would be obvious, even to you. Shall I give you a moment to catch up?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm giving you an excuse to come by my flat in the middle of the night. Think over the implications."

Oh. Oh _dear._

Deep breaths, Lestrade. You're better than this. He's having it on. Because who the fuck does this? Really. It's insane.

"Sherlock, I've already told you," Greg began steadily, "this is inappropriate. I'm pretty much your liaison officer. This is a _work_ relationship. Nothing else. If it became anything else, I could lose my job."

"I didn't ask for excuses," he could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, "they're excruciatingly predictable. And since when have you cared about bending the rules for me?"

"This is different."

"No it's not. What are you so afraid of? It's not like I'd tell anyone."

Greg's heart was thumping in his throat. He was sweating.

"I don't care. It's still a bad idea. Why is my not wanting to shag you such a difficult concept to grasp?"

"Because I know you're lying," Sherlock laughed. "I bet you're thinking about it right now. My delicate wrists, cuffed behind by back. Would you press me up against a wall like you did the first time I showed up high to a crime scene? Or would you tangle your fingers in my hair and shove me down onto my knees?" Sherlock's voice had changed. Gotten deeper, sunken into a sort of sultry purr.

Greg's breath caught. Well weren't those some lovely little mental images? Wait, NO. He shouldn't be thinking about that. Sherlock pressed flat against a brick wall, struggling to get free... or on his knees choking around Greg's cock... shit. Greg tried to shake himself mentally, but it didn't really work. Because the mobile speaker in Greg's ear was still filled with Sherlock's voice, and it was still saying wonderfully filthy things.

"You know I still think about it," Sherlock was talking quietly, so Greg had to strain to listen. So he was forced to pay attention. "Sometimes, when I touch myself, I cuff one of my arms to the bed, and pretend it's _your_ fingers inside me."

Goddamn it. Greg's cock was rapidly filling out. This was not good. He should hang up. But then there was the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and Sherlock let out a tiny moan.

"I think about the first time we met and how you _tackled_ me, and sat on top of me, and kept me pinned down. I think about how I squirmed and writhed, and struggled, and how you didn't let me up. And really, it's a lot more fun to imagine that we're both naked, and you're sliding into me while holding me down. Because I bet you wouldn't be gentle with me. And I'd love it."

Shit. Fuck. This was not happening. But it was. Sherlock was panting slightly. Was he actually wanking or acting? With Sherlock, it could be either. And somehow, that fact that he couldn't tell which it was sent a strange prickling arousal through Greg's body.

"I've already come once tonight. I fucked myself to completion on one of my larger dildos. Most of the time, I can orgasm through prostate stimulation alone. Would you like to fuck the come out of me, Lestrade? I think we'd both enjoy it."

His _voice_. It was like melted chocolate, and whiskey, and cigarettes, and pure _sex—_and it was making Greg ache in a lot of ways he really shouldn't.

"You have large hands," Sherlock had gone a bit breathy. "I bet they'd leave wonderful, dark, purple bruises around my neck if you choked me until I went limp underneath you."

Greg blinked and realized he'd been palming his erection unconsciously. He cursed under his breath, and clenched his hand into a fist.

"You could leave finger-shaped bruises around my hips as well. I'd wear my belt a notch too tight for the next few days, so it pressed against them and made the marks twinge every time I moved."

Oh fucking hell. Greg bit his lip to keep from saying—_I bet you would, you slut, and I'd get hard every time you winced because of the marks I left_.

Instead, he took a deep breath. "I'm hanging up now."

"Just when it was getting fun?" Sherlock chuckled darkly.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said curtly.

"Goodnight, Detective Inspector."

* * *

_Oh don't worry. Things are going to get so much MORE fun. See you Tuesday! _


	6. Broken Vase

The real trouble started in the storage room of a funeral home—after Sherlock had reduced an entire wake to tears.

Of course, he'd been right about everything. The patriarch of the Sampson family hadn't died of natural causes. And by making _everybody_ cry, he'd somehow figured out who killed him. But that was beside the point.

Greg was fuming.

Sherlock had a calm, rather amused expression on his face, even though Greg had him backed against the wall and had been yelling for a good five minutes about what was appropriate behavior at a goddamned funeral. Couldn't Sherlock have waited until they at least had the body in the ground? Couldn't he have some respect for the dead?

There were old, dried-out roses in vases, and empty serving plates stacked around them. Chairs piled onto each other—a dusty piano in the center of the chaos. He and Sherlock were right by the door. Standing in the only free space.

Greg's face was red, and he was still in the middle of a rant, and Sherlock broke into a smile.

"What the _fuck_ are you smiling about?" Greg snarled.

"Do you scold the rest of your team out this thoroughly when they make somebody cry?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I don't have to, because you're the only one that's ever funeral crashed with the express intent of upsetting a room full of the wealthiest people in London."

They were already standing fairly close together. Greg was caught a bit off guard when Sherlock grabbed him by the front of his coat and pulled him forward. Their faces were mere centimeters apart. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek.

It was rather difficult to discern whether Sherlock leaned in and closed the distance between their lips, or Greg pitched forward just enough to mash their mouths together. Perhaps both things occurred at the same time.

Whatever the cause and effect relationship happened to be—the facts remain the same.

One minute Greg was in the middle of a heated chewing out, and the next minute he was heatedly snogging a certain infamous consulting detective.

Their tongues swirled together and it sent strange sparks of electricity through Greg's nervous system. His hands were on Sherlock's hips, and he was pressing the taller man into the wall. The kiss may have started on Sherlock's initiative—but Greg was quickly in control. Nipping and sucking at the taller man's lips like he was starving.

When Sherlock moaned into Greg's mouth, all bets were off. Greg growled, and found himself grinding his hips into the taller man. He could feel Sherlock's erection, burning though the thin cloth of those doubtlessly expensive trousers.

And damn. Greg's cock was throbbing. Sherlock's fingers were running through his hair. Well, some of them, anyway. Because Sherlock also _definitely _had a hand on Greg's arse, and he was squeezing, and pulling him closer, even though it wasn't actually possible for them to be pressed together any more firmly than they already were.

Perhaps reality tried to check in at some point between Sherlock seductively whispering Greg's name, and Sherlock leaving the beginnings of a rather awful hickey on Greg's collarbone. It occurred to him that what they were doing was a spectacularly bad idea. The very thing he'd been trying to avoid for months. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. Sherlock was panting and flushed, and whimpering as Greg's cock slid against his through the fabric of their trousers. And it was fucking intoxicating.

On a whim, Greg moved his hands from their position on Sherlock's waist, and grabbed a hold of the other man's wrists. Pinning them firmly over his head. Even though Sherlock was taller, even though it was an entirely impractical position, Sherlock squirmed and let out a breathy, "oh" and Greg was on the verge of coming in his pants like a teenager.

In the heat of it all, they'd rather lost track of their surroundings. One of them, probably Greg, knocked the table next to them and there was a loud crash as one of the numerous vases full of dead flowers fell to the floor and shattered. Greg pulled back abruptly at the noise.

The moment had broken. Greg tried to take a deep breath and will his erection away. Probably for the best. The floor of a storage room was no proper place to shag. _Especially_ considering they were still technically in a funeral home.

Greg took another few steps back and cleared his throat, suddenly quite embarrassed. Because damn it all to hell. Sherlock was biting his lip and wearing that same _I told you so_ face he always put on at particularly frustrating crime scenes.

It seemed like he should say something, but Greg's brain had stopped working. So instead he just let out a frustrated grunting noise and exited the room so he could try to collect himself elsewhere. Preferably a place where he wasn't directly under the gaze of those frightening blue eyes.

In retrospect, Greg probably should have chosen that moment to clarify that he did not want to peruse some sort of tryst—that involved handcuffs, and leather, and far too much insanity.

Then again, Sherlock probably wouldn't have listened anyway.

* * *

_Teeeeehhhhheeeeeee. See you on Saturday :D_


	7. Police-Issue Handcuffs

"All right. Where are they?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Detective Inspector."

"My _handcuffs_, Sherlock. I know you have at least five of my badges hidden around your flat. It's not such a leap in logic to figure out you stole my cuffs as well."

The door to Lestrade's office was closed, but he was still whispering into his mobile. It was quite an embarrassment for an officer to lose his handcuffs.

It was even worse if you lost them to Sherlock Holmes. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Police-issue cuffs are hard to come by. I'm keeping these. Order another pair," Sherlock said in a tired voice. As if he were explaining something simple to a needy child.

"There's a _reason _they're hard to come by, Sherlock. You're not supposed to fucking have them."

"I like them better."

"What?"

"Padded cuffs are so dreadfully dull. I like to feel the bite of cold metal against my skin. To know that I could really hurt myself if I struggled too hard."

Greg's mouth was oddly dry.

"Of course—just because I'm not willing to give them back, it doesn't mean you couldn't take them from me," Sherlock drawled through the tinny speaker of Greg's mobile.

"Is there any point whatsoever in telling you to stop being ridiculous?"

"No."

"Why are you doing this to me?" Greg groaned. Really, it was a rhetorical question. But of course Sherlock wouldn't take it that way.

"Because I've always liked older men, and you have a nice voice for barking orders, and you're the perfect combination of flustered and annoyed by my advances."

Greg let out a few ragged breaths.

Was there ever going to be an escape from this? Or should he just give into the madness and let the proverbial fever run its course so he could be done with it?

Wait? What? No. That was a terrible idea.

"The fact that I keep rejecting you doesn't factor into this equation at all? I've already told you why this can't happen." Greg could tell the words sounded forced coming out of his mouth.

"Last time I checked a sloppy kiss on the job is a pretty terrible way to reject somebody."

Greg shivered involuntarily.

It had probably been silly to hope that Sherlock would just let that kiss go. Drop it. Never talk about it again. But it had been two weeks, and Greg's denial was going so well.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Greg muttered. "It was a heat of the moment kind of thing, alright? It's not like I meant it."

"Are you actually trying to lie to _me_? That's adorable."

"What do you want?"

"Obvious."

"I'm not going to sleep with you. Anything else?"

"I don't want you to _sleep_ with me, Lestrade. I want you to tie me down and teach me a lesson. Preferably with your belt. I bet the buckle would leave wonderfully interesting welts on my skin."

Greg had to take a moment for himself. To lick his lips, and breathe, and definitely not picture Sherlock's wonderfully long limbs tied to bedposts so that he was spread-eagled across the mattress and incapable of motion. Greg did not think about how fantastic Sherlock's pale skin would look with a symphony of red lines painted across it. Nor did he think about slipping a lubed finger in Sherlock's arse after the whipping was done with to press against his prostate and make him whimper for more.

"I expect you to have my handcuffs back on my desk by noon tomorrow," Greg said crisply. Really, he was surprised at his own composure.

"Is that an order?" He could feel the hint of a chuckle in Sherlock's voice.

"Yes."

"You're going to have to try a lot harder than that."

The line went dead.

The text messages started later on that day. The first time Greg's text-tone went off and he looked at the screen—one new multimedia message from Sherlock Holmes—he knew that he shouldn't open it. He was still in his office finishing paperwork. Everyone else had already gone home or was at the far end of the building.

He clicked to open the message. The room was filled with a breathy, deep, decidedly male _moan_. There was no other word to describe it. Greg nearly dropped his mobile.

The second one came as he was riding the tube home. This time he had headphones in. He bit down on his lower lip, silently having a great debate with himself. The grand majority of Greg's brain very much wanted to open the text message. Partly out of curiosity, but also partly out of those strange feelings that Sherlock had stirred deep inside him. The desire to ravage somebody—to cause them pain equal to pleasure. The rational part of Greg's mind didn't really have a fighting chance. It's desperate pleas for Greg to see reason mostly got drowned out by the wave of arousal when Greg replayed the moan from the first message.

He opened the second message. The recording was a bit longer. The whistle of something thin and leather falling through the air, then the resounding _smack_ as the object made contact with bare skin. Then another moan. This time, not just a moan, but a name.

_Greg._

He had to grab onto the nearest pole to keep his balance. The immediate redirection of blood flow from his head down to his cock almost made him dizzy.

The third message didn't come until Greg was already in bed, staring at the ceiling, and not sleeping. This time, he didn't even bother with telling himself it was a bad idea to listen. He just clicked the button.

Heavy breathing came over the speaker.

"Greg, I'm close, oh fuck… please, let me come. Tell me I can come. I'm trying to be a good boy, but it's so difficult. Please, sir. _Please._"

The words reached in and pulled at something deep within Greg's chest. His skin felt electric. Sherlock had just given him all the power in the world.

He tapped out his reply before he could stop himself.

**Come for me right now.**

He hit the send button. It was a few minutes before his mobile chimed again.

**Thank you - SH**

Oh god. Greg set his mobile aside and rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow. He definitely did not start rutting against his own mattress. Just as he definitely didn't think of Sherlock, and his unfairly plush arse, before he came in his pajama trousers.

This was not good. So beyond not good.

Why was it so goddamned thrilling?

* * *

_I don't know if you'll be more or less anxious after that. But I really am almost through being a terrible tease. Sexy times are rapidly approaching. I will see you on Tuesday :)_


	8. Stop Thinking

_Fair warning: mentions of blood play and knives._

* * *

Really, Lestrade had only tackled Sherlock to save his life. He would swear it on a bible—his intentions had been entirely innocent. Altruistic, even. Plenty of people from the Yard wouldn't have done it. They would have let Sherlock get shot.

But when the murderous maniac they'd been chasing all evening was finally cornered, and started firing at them from the window on the top floor of a town house, Greg hadn't thought. He'd just reacted.

He'd launched himself and dragged Sherlock to the ground behind his squad car. Everybody else was in the midst of their own duck and cover. Sally was around the corner, crouched behind a lorry. Dimmock was on the other side of the street, sheltering behind a beat up sedan.

Nobody saw Lestrade fall on top of Sherlock as the second bullet whizzed over their heads.

Just like nobody saw how Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade's neck and began kissing him feverishly—despite the utter inappropriateness of such a reaction to getting shot at. The adrenaline of near death was still pounding through Greg's veins. It was an awful moment for any sort of rational cognitive function.

All that really registered was a pair of warm, soft lips moving against his, and in the moment of dazed terror and elation, Greg was more than happy to oblige. Before he knew what was happening, their tongues were tangled, and Sherlock was panting into his mouth, bucking his hips and—dear god—blazing erection up against Greg's thigh.

Greg pulled away for a moment and the shock threatened to set in.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock whispered.

And then Greg was drowning again. Drowning in Sherlock. And fuck. This wasn't good at all. This was so terribly wrong. Why was it turning him on? It really shouldn't be. But Sherlock's _mouth._ It was fucking perfect… really, Greg couldn't help but imagine what those wonderfully pouty lips would feel like wrapped around his cock…

Another gunshot shattered the silence. Greg was jolted out of the kiss once more, and rolled off of Sherlock, cursing.

In the aftermath of the shootout, the criminal running out of bullets, and them having to go into the building and subdue him with their nightsticks—Greg didn't have a lot of time to dwell on what had happened.

The rest of the day was a complete blur.

It wasn't until he was lying in his bed, about to fall asleep, that his mobile buzzed on the nightstand beside him. He picked it up and squinted at the screen with bleary eyes.

It displayed a fuzzy picture of a thin, pale wrist, wrapped in a pair of police-issue handcuffs. _His_ handcuffs. They had to be.

Greg groaned out loud. But he didn't delete the photograph. He just set his phone aside, and proceeded _not_ to think about the fact that Sherlock was handcuffed to his bed right now. And most likely touching himself. God damn it. This wasn't fair. Greg was popping erections like a man half his age and he couldn't feel much besides incredible frustration because Sherlock bloody Holmes, of all people, was the one causing it.

His mobile vibrated again. He should have known better than to open another picture message. But really, he was tired. It had been a rough day. Wasn't he entitled to a moment of weakness? Or two? Or how ever many it would take to get him off so he could fall into sweet unconsciousness?

Oh _Je__sus. _That was a cock. And extremely erect, long, and pale cock, framed by a patch of dark curls.

That was a picture of Sherlock bloody Homes's cock.

Greg had always considered himself to be more sexually opportunistic than anything. But after being married to a woman for nearly ten years, the sight of another man's rock hard prick was a bit startling. And slightly arousing. Fine. _Very _arousing.

**Tell me what to do - SH**

There weren't enough words in the English language to express all the things Greg wanted Sherlock to do. Just like there weren't words for what Greg wanted to do to Sherlock in that moment. Strangle, slap, bite, hold, lick, and fuck into the mattress were the ones that floated immediately to mind.

**Finger yourself.**

Well, that actually summed up what Greg wanted Sherlock to do quite nicely.

**Predictable**** - SH**

Greg read the reply twice, slightly miffed. Well fine then.

**Hold your breath until you're on the verge of passing out, while fingering yourself.**

**Better - SH**

There was a long pause between replies. Then Greg's mobile was buzzing repeatedly. Phone call, not a text. He picked up, and all he needed to hear was Sherlock's ragged breathing before he slid a hand down the front of his pajama trousers.

"I held my breath until my vision went splotchy, is that acceptable?" Sherlock was talking in a voice Greg had never heard before. It wasn't calculated or sarcastic. It was fucking _frantic._

"I guess so." Greg wrapped his fingers around his cock in a loose fist and started slowly fucking it.

"Is that what you'd do to me? Would you choke me?"

"Oh yes," Greg licked his lips unconsciously, "I'd throttle the fight right out of you."

Sherlock groaned. "I want you to hold a straight razor against my throat while you fuck me. I want you to c_ut me _and lick up the blood so I can taste the iron on your lips when you kiss me."

Greg really shouldn't be getting off to this. But he couldn't help it. Perhaps it was just the power of suggestion, how clearly aroused Sherlock was. But he didn't remember the last time his cock had leaked this much pre-come.

"I'm close, Lestrade," Sherlock practically growled.

"Stop." Greg continued to languidly fuck his own fist as the racket on the other end of the line ceased suddenly. It was possible that Sherlock had just ignored Greg's instructions and come anyway. But he was still breathing quite heavily. Greg could practically feel the tension in the silence. "You can start up again when you've calmed down enough."

He heard movement. Mattress springs creaking.

"You're wondering what I'm doing," Sherlock somehow sounded strained and condescending at the same time. "I'm sprawled out on my back. Your handcuffs are wrapped around my left wrist, though the other side is not attached to anything, and I'm fucking myself on a 20 centimeter long dildo."

Greg squeezed his cock just a little bit harder, and there was no point in bothering to pretend he wasn't wondering what Sherlock's arse would feel like. No doubt, tight, and hot as sin.

Sherlock started to let out all these breathy little keening noises. Each one pushed Greg dangerously close to the edge.

"Please, sir," Sherlock moaned. "May I come?"

"Not quite yet. But don't stop fucking yourself."

"I can't hold on much longer. _Please_. Oh god. It feels so good, Greg. But I bet your cock would feel even better."

"Wait..." Greg counted to ten. "All right. Come. Now."

Sherlock let out a broken little grunt. It was all Greg needed. The orgasm ripped through him. He was crashing on a wave of tingling pleasure. It was only when his ejaculate started to cool on his stomach, and he came down from the rapid endorphin spike, that he realized what had just happened.

He'd just participated in actual phone sex with the world's smugest consulting detective.

God. Fucking. Damn. It.

"Good night, Detective Inspector." Sherlock sounded spent, and entirely too amused.

"Good night," Greg said stiffly before ringing off.

* * *

_See you on Saturday my darlings! :)_


	9. You're My Slut

There was a sharp knock on Greg's door. He awoke with a start. These days he dozed off on the couch watching telly as often as he actually went to bed. Did that mean he was getting old? He'd always considered himself a "young" forty-three, despite his graying hair.

His thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. Oh. Right.

He stood, stretching and yawning. Who the hell would be dropping by at 1:00 on a Saturday morning? It wasn't like Greg had a lot of mates that would come over unannounced—especially in the middle of the night. Sometimes his friends from Uni would all get together for a pick-up football game at the park and hit the pubs afterwards. But it wasn't like any of them were particularly close.

Greg's questions were all answered when he looked through the spy-hole of the door and was greeted by a mess of dark curls. Sherlock had a ridiculously haughty expression hitched across his face. Damn it.

Greg debated not opening the door, but he figured Sherlock might just pick the lock and come in anyway. Best do this on his own terms. He unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door slowly. Sherlock smelled like cigarettes as he pushed past Greg—walking into the flat without waiting to be invited.

"Quaint little place you've got here," Sherlock said dryly. Like all of this was perfectly normal. Like he hadn't showed up out of the blue at a completely indecent hour.

"Um… thanks?" Greg closed the door and walked back over to the couch. But he did not sit down.

Sherlock removed his scarf and coat, draping them over the back of the sofa. His eyes flicked over the walls and the carpet of the flat, drinking in the information. Greg's stomach jumped uncomfortably. He didn't even want to think about what he'd accidentally revealed by the state of his dingy little flat.

It was sparsely furnished. No pictures on the walls. The bare minimum for functionality and nothing else. This was not his _home_. His wife had taken that in the divorce. This flat was just a transition that Greg had yet to get out of.

Greg cleared his throat. "Was there something I can help you with or did you just show up to stare at my wallpaper?" Said wallpaper was an off-yellow color, and Greg despised it.

Sherlock turned to face him and the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

"I got tired of waiting."

"For what?" Greg snorted.

"For you to show up at my place, push me up against a wall, and ravage me thoroughly. Really, that's what I would have preferred. But you were taking too long—so I decided to come here."

Sherlock began to walk towards him, slowly, calmly, and really the advance shouldn't have felt nearly as predatory as it did. Greg couldn't look away. He wasn't sure if he was holding his ground defiantly, or frozen to the spot.

When they were almost within reaching distance, Greg braced himself for a kiss.

Maybe Sherlock saw it and just wanted to be contrary. Maybe it had been his plan from the beginning.

But Greg was quite taken aback when Sherlock dropped to his knees on the soft carpet, putting his mouth right at the level of Greg's belt buckle. There were still maybe 20 centimeters separating them. Sherlock looked up at him from underneath his eyelashes, and ran his tongue across his lower lip.

"Do you like me this way?" Sherlock's biting drawl had gone soft, almost pliant. "Or would you prefer it if I struggled?"

Well that was a loaded bloody question wasn't it? Sherlock leaned in just enough so Greg could feel the heat of his breath through his trousers. His cock was swelling rapidly.

"You seem like the type that might enjoy the show… _no _officer, please… stop… I don't want this," Sherlock almost sounded bored.

"I think the illusion might be ruined by the fact that showed up at my flat in the middle of the night and asked for this." Greg realized his fingers were tangled in Sherlock's curls, and he had no recollection of reaching out for them.

"You remember my safeword?" Sherlock smiled, leaning into Greg's touch just the right amount.

"Vivaldi," Greg said through gritted teeth, "you know I'm quite frusterated right now. I might actually hurt you."

"_Please_ do. That would be infinitely more interesting than just kneeling here while you have an internal crisis."

Greg tugged at Sherlock's hair experimentally. The taller man's body went taught—at complete attention. He was breathing a little faster.

"Take what you want… _Detective Inspector."_

And that was it. Greg's self control just shattered into a million tiny pieces. Because Sherlock had been pushing all of his buttons for months, and there was only so much one man could be expected to endure. He grabbed a more firm hold of Sherlock's hair and pulled his face closer, so the other man's nose was pressing into Greg's crotch.

"Unzip my trousers, and _suck_ you filthy whore."

Greg was a bit surprised at himself—at the way his voice dropped into a frankly menacing growl. However, Sherlock's obedience was nearly instantaneous. Greg didn't know it was possible to unbuckle a belt and unzip trousers so fast. But Sherlock was already nuzzling at his swollen erection through the thin fabric of his pants. Mouthing the wet spot that was forming around the tip of his cock.

_Sweet Jesus._

Greg was going to die of a heart attack right here, wasn't he? He steadied himself by yanking on Sherlock's hair even harder, eliciting a small yelp.

"I said suck it, you disgusting little tart. And be quick about it or I'm going to break that pretty face of yours."

Sherlock pulled Greg's pants down and wrapped those unfairly plump lips around the head of the DI's cock. Greg let out a low moan at the contact. Clearly, Sherlock had sucked quite a few cocks before. Because he swirled his tongue around just so, massaging the tense little bundle of nerve endings underneath the glans, lapping at it in an entirely unsavory manner.

And Greg could not take it. God, it was too much. It was bloody fantastic. But he could feel Sherlock smirking around his prick, and something had to be done about _that_ right away.

He shoved himself into Sherlock's mouth until he felt the smug bastard start to gag.

"Is this what you wanted?" Greg growled. "Did you want me to fuck your throat so hard that you can't talk properly for days? Really, it might be an improvement. I might do this every time you tamper with evidence, or insult my team members. Because you're damn pretty when you're choking on my cock—and this way you can't say anything infuriating."

Sherlock moaned around him. It was like a wordless challenge. _Is that all you've got? _Greg began to fuck his mouth in earnest. And even if it was painful, Sherlock didn't let on. He just hollowed his cheeks, hummed, and let Greg use him.

The drool was running down Sherlock's chin. His eyes were half closed. His body had gone almost limp. He was still kneeling upright, but just barely. Greg was dizzy with the adrenaline rush. He could do _anything_. Sherlock would certainly let him.

"Such a lovely little cock slave," Greg pulled back out of Sherlock's mouth to let him breathe.

Sherlock gasped for air raggedly. Greg's mind raced. He didn't have any rope around the flat. He had his belt, and his handcuffs. No. Going to get the handcuffs would take too much time. He'd start _thinking _about what was happening.

Greg grasped the end of his belt and slowly slid it out. "Let's see those fragile wrists of yours."

Sherlock stared up at him for a moment, not saying anything. Not directly defiant. But he didn't show any signs of motion.

Well now.

Greg drew his hand back and slapped Sherlock across the face. The sound of the blow echoed through the quiet flat. Sherlock's looked a bit startled. His cheek began to color where Greg had hit him.

"I said give me your wrists!" Greg barked. And he slapped Sherlock again. Angling for the exact same place.

Sherlock snapped to attention. Raising his hands in front of him, and avoiding direct eye contact.

"There's a good boy." The older man cooed softly, grabbing a hold of Sherlock's wrists and beginning to wind the belt around them. He looped it in a sort of figure eight, with another circle around it for good measure, before latching the buckle. It was something Sherlock could definitely squeeze out of if he wanted to. But he wouldn't slip out of it by accident.

Once the latch was secure, he placed both of his hands on Sherlock's broad shoulders and pushed him gracelessly back onto the floor. Sherlock fell with a small gasp, perhaps the air got knocked out of him just a little bit. But he scrambled to rearrange himself so his feet were on the floor, rather than awkwardly bent underneath him.

Greg slid comfortably between Sherlock's thighs, supporting himself on one arm, while using the other to pin Sherlock's wrists down above him. The younger man's eyes were wide, irises a barely visible rim of dark blue around the engorged dark pupils.

Sherlock began to squirm slightly. Like he was fighting it. Like maybe he was trying to buck Greg off of him. Like a horse that hadn't been properly broken. But Greg chuckled, because he knew better. He could feel Sherlock's erection pressing into him, seeking out heat and friction.

Greg dipped down to nip at Sherlock's neck, and the younger man instantly stilled. Greg bit down a little harder and Sherlock _moaned._

"Want me to leave bruises?" Greg nearly growled. "I'm going to either way. By the time I'm done with you, your entire neck is going to be a lovely shade of purple, so everyone will be able to see what I've done to you—and know what a whore you are."

"Yes, please, sir," Sherlock didn't quite sound condescending anymore. No. More like breathy and decidedly aroused.

Greg bit down again and started sucking a large bruise on the side of Sherlock's neck. Somewhere, at the back of his mind, he was glad that Sherlock usually wore a scarf. It wouldn't look like he was trying to hide something.

"Keep your hands above your head." Greg sat back and began unzipping Sherlock's trousers. Cheeky bastard. Sherlock wasn't even wearing pants. He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's long, slender cock and began to stroke it languidly.

He watched with detached interest as a drop of pre come pooled at the tip of the taller man's cock, and made a small wet spot on his silk shirt. Sherlock was dead still except for each ragged breath he took.

Greg pushed up the edge of his shirt so he could see a band of milky, soft skin. Then he dragged his thumb along the sharpness of Sherlock's hip-bone before digging in with his nail and tracing a dark red scratch. Sherlock shivered.

"If you keep doing that, I'm going to come, sir." His voice was thin and shaky.

"Not without permission you won't."

Sherlock writhed around a bit, biting on his lips and fighting the inevitable. But Greg just kept stroking, slowly picking up speed, and squeezing down a bit harder.

The DI mused vaguely, wondering if he should strip Sherlock's clothes off. But he did rather like the contrast. His usually crisp shirt and trousers rumpled. Sweaty. And his cock out, cheekily dripping a trail of pre-come onto the purple silk button down.

Besides. If Sherlock were naked, Greg would want to fuck him just that much _more_. He didn't have any condoms or lubricant. Not the sort of thing you kept around when you were divorced and too busy to start dating again.

"Please," Sherlock whimpered, "I'm so close."

"You can do better than that."

"Sir, if you let me come, I'll deep throat you. I bet I could take it all."

"Would you like swallowing my entire cock?"

"Yes. I'd _love _it. Just... ugh..."

Sherlock was starting to tense. Greg saw it. He let go of Sherlock's cock and wrapped a strong hand around the other man's throat instead. He stared to choke him. Cutting off his air supply. Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head.

Greg barely slid their cocks together. Rutted up against Sherlock ever so slightly—and Sherlock was coming. His cock jerked and he painted his shirt with little stripes of ejaculate. Greg groaned at the sight. Then promptly released Sherlock's throat and slapped him again.

"Did I say you could come?" He growled.

"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't—I couldn't control myself."

Greg dipped down and bit the side of Sherlock's neck that wasn't purple yet. He didn't stop until he tasted blood. Sherlock shuddered and moaned beneath him.

Then, before Greg knew what he was doing, he slid off of Sherlock and dragged himself up to sit on the edge of the couch. His rock hard cock jutted out into the cold air of the flat, still throbbing.

"Get up here, whore. Drape yourself over my knees. I can see you're going to have to learn who's in charge the hard way."

Sherlock kneeled timidly and shuffled over to Greg. With a rather uncertain look, he leaned over so that his stomach was pressed against Greg's thighs. Greg pulled him up, shifting him and arranging his body until Sherlock's deliciously plump arse was sticking out. Just begging to be smacked. Greg pushed Sherlock's trousers down enough to reveal the two pale globes of bare flesh. He traced his fingers across the exposed skin for a moment before he drew his hand back, and brought it down swiftly against Sherlock's left cheek. The taller man jolted, perhaps whimpered slightly, but he made no move towards escape.

"Who's your master?" Greg barked. He brought his hand down again. Sherlock's pale arse had the first faint hints of crimson painted across it. Good.

"You are, sir."

"Say my name!" Greg smacked the younger man with the palm of his hand a bit more enthusiastically. He got three strokes in before Sherlock managed a reply.

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"You're my slut."

"Oh _yes_." Sherlock cried as Greg slapped him again.

"Do you want to suck my cock again?"

"Yes, sir."

"Beg for it." More brutal blows. Sherlock's skin was a lovely variety of pale pinks and deeper reds.

"Please let me suck you off, sir. I want to feel your rock hard prick violating the back of my throat. I want to taste your come."

A few more swift blows, then Greg allowed Sherlock to slide off and crowd up between his knees to dive down onto his cock. Greg was entirely too exited. The second he felt the heat of Sherlock's mouth wrap around him again, he knew he wouldn't last long. He didn't give any warning. Just a thick cry. Then the heat ripped through him. He was pulsing. Emptying himself down the other man's throat. Sherlock swallowed it all greedily.

Then greg slumped back onto the couch. They were both panting.

The weight of everything they'd just down settled down around him, and Greg's eyes snapped down to where Sherlock was leaning against the coffee table—grinning.

"Well, that was quite interesting." Sherlock tucked himself back inside his trousers and zipped them up.

Greg just nodded weakly. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to look Sherlock in the eyes again. Not after all those thing's he'd just said.

But then Sherlock stood, pulled on his coat, and tied the scarf around his neck. He walked towards the doorway, and didn't turn around until it was open and he was halfway out.

"Until next time then, Gregory."

He was gone before Greg could reply.

* * *

_Oh my. Apparently, being drunk is quite conducive to writing smut. I'll have to try it more often. I'd apologize for my general __naughtiness, but I know that none of you mind. Sorry if there are mistakes. I didn't get a lot of time to edit._

_I might be able to manage Tuesday. If not, Thursday it is :)_


	10. You Never Really Stood a Chance

_Fair warning: I feel that you'll yell at me less for being a terrible tease if I warn you that I'm going to be a terrible tease ahead of time. Also, to appease you, know that this is a cut in half chapter. I didn't get the time to finish it, so I'll post the smutty part by Saturday. I'm sorry. I just can't do random scenes of kink without build up. It's an awful vice. But... the porn will be quite porny. You have my word as a gentlewoman and a scholar._

* * *

Greg wasn't avoiding calling Sherlock for help. Really, he wasn't. There had only been two murders so far. And even though the details were eerily similar, it had to be three or more before they had an official problem. Molly hadn't even finished putting the meat puzzles back together yet. There wasn't a whole lot to be done. They couldn't even identify the victims by dental records.

Really, it was the kind of weird case they always called Sherlock on. It was inevitable. But still. It could be put off for just a bit longer.

"All right. Where is he?"

Greg jumped slightly at the noise—startled out of his thoughts. He'd been starting at photos of the crime scene for nearly an hour and he hadn't made any progress.

Sally Donovan was leaning against his doorframe, wearing a particularly sour expression.

"Sorry?" Greg blinked. He was so tired. When did he last sleep? He couldn't even remember.

"The Freak," Sally said through gritted teeth. "They just found another body. The press is going insane. This is the point where he'd usually strut in and solve the bloody thing in less than twelve hours."

"Oh," Greg swallowed hard. Sally Donnovan was more than a bit scary at normal times. But the exhaustion somehow seemed to sharpen her edges rather than soften them. "I thought you hated it when I call him in."

"I do. He's an insufferable prick. But this thing has been going on for nearly three weeks, and we have zero leads. I'm not going to tell you to call him. God knows. I'm just asking why you haven't yet, when normally you'd be dragging him in when we found meat puzzle number one."

Greg let out a long steady breath. Maybe his eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

Donovan snapped her fingers. "Oi! Lestrade! God you look awful."

"Yeah, well, none of us are very pretty when we've got a serial killer on the loose." The DI ran his fingers through his short grey hair. "I suppose I'll text him once Molly finishes putting the bodies back together."

And really, there shouldn't have been an odd heat prickling in his stomach at the mere thought of interacting with Sherlock. But he couldn't help it. They hadn't spoken to each other since… well since Sherlock had showed up at Greg's flat that night. At this point he wasn't sure if Sherlock was waiting impatiently for him to make another move—or if the rather eccentric man had gotten bored and moved on.

"Right," Sally nodded. Then paused for a moment. "If you tell him we need him—"

"I'd never dream of it," Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Good."

And she was gone as abruptly as she appeared.

Greg took a few moments to steady himself. Then he called down to Molly. The bodies were nearly put back together and she was working on getting identifications through DNA. Greg has always been the sort of man to bite the bullet, rather than put things off once he knew they absolutely needed to be done. It was still rather early in the evening. Perhaps he'd be safe.

A text was less intrusive than a phone call.

**I've got two meat puzzles at St. Bart's, and another one just found. Interested?**

Greg stared at his mobile for twenty minutes before it chimed. He was almost afraid to open it.

**Bring all the crime scene photos you have by my flat - SH**

**You're not going to come down here?**

**Why should I? You're the one that needs my help. It only makes sense that you come here - SH**

**You've already got it solved.**

Usually Sherlock would be chomping at the bit to go to the new crime scene—if he was just settling for photos, he was no longer interested. The case wasn't boring, so that meant he already knew what had happened.

**I just need to confirm my conclusions. Bring the photos. The door will be open - SH**

Greg didn't want to go. Well… all right, maybe he did. But he knew it was a bad idea. Still, for the good of the public, he pulled on his coat and grabbed every photo they'd taken—sliding them into a manila envelope before walking out of his office and locking the door behind them.

Their floor of the building was relatively empty. Most people had gone home for the day hours ago. Even when Greg had a family to go home to, he'd always made a habit of staying late at the office until the culprit was found.

Perhaps it was why he no longer had a wife, and barely saw his daughter.

He strode through the rows of cubicles and pressed the down button for the lift. Soon he was in his cruiser, taking a familiar pattern of turns towards Sherlock's flat. He'd been there on drugs busts, and for other miscellaneous case-related reasons. But he'd never been quite so nervous. Even after he found a parking spot, he took his time walking up to the building. A smart, brick affair, that he doubted Sherlock paid for on his own.

Between the posh accent and the flat that no junkie could finance through a sleuthing hobby—Greg had ascertained that Sherlock came from money. Perhaps it somewhat explained that bastard's sense of entitlement.

Still, he rang the doorbell with caution. He stood for no more than a few moments before the buzzer sounded. He turned the knob and climbed up towards the third floor. Sherlock was in 304. The door stood slightly ajar, and invitation for him to walk inside.

Sherlock sat on the black leather couch, with his legs crossed, holding a glass full of what looked like whiskey. He half raised an eyebrow as Greg walked inside and palmed the door shut behind him.

Greg didn't wait to be invited to sit down. He simply plopped into an armchair beside the couch and tossed the manila folder down on the coffee table.

"Well that's a fine hello," Sherlock smirked and sipped his glass.

"I'm to tired to play any games," Greg let out a long sigh.

Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on his knees and began studying the glossy photographs. Greg was thankful for the small silence. Sherlock sat back after a moment, looking smug as he usually did.

"I thought so," the taller man took another sip of his drink.

"What?"

"The bodies aren't fresh victims. They're cadavers. The puzzles are coming in drums full of formaldehyde, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded.

"Well, that's not to preserve the puzzles. It's because they were already preserved before the cutting. From the precision of the dismemberment, you're definitely looking for a surgeon. I'd recommend looking at a Dr. Wallace Franklyn. He used to be a surgeon, but now he works in a funeral home near the river. He's been running experiments on bodies that were meant to be cremated—giving the families cigarette ash instead of their loved one's remains. But a few people have become suspicious. Now it would appear he's just trying to get rid of the evidence before anybody comes by with a warrant."

Greg stared open mouthed for a moment. "So there's no serial killer?"

"No," Sherlock chuckled, "just a mad scientist that decided to get a bit too artful with his body disposal."

"God, I don't think I've ever heard better news."

"Would you like a drink?" Sherlock gestured to the bottle of whiskey sitting on the corner of the table.

Greg's relief evaporated, much the way of water on hot brick. "Oh, I'd better not," he started carefully, "I should really get back down to the Yard. Everybody's in a bit of a panic…"

"So text them what I just told you." Sherlock reached for the empty glass by the bottle and began pouring.

"There's still lots of, um—paperwork to do." Greg looked at the floor.

"Really, Lestrade. If you don't want to shag me, that's fine. But I don't understand the point. It's already happened once. I don't know what moral qualms you could possibly have left." Sherlock said it so casually Greg almost missed the meaning of the sentence.

"I… look, Sherlock it's not you I just… what happened was… well I rather lost control, all right?"

"Mmm. Yes. It was quite lovely. I had the bruises on my neck for _days_."

"It's not healthy, Sherlock! God, I could have really hurt you."

"Isn't that the point?"

Greg tried to take a moment to collect himself. But then Sherlock slid the drink across the table so it was right in front of him.

"Just a glass of whiskey, Lestrade," his voice was deceptively calm. "Text Donovan what I told you, and relax for a little while. You've earned it."

"Don't think I can't see what you're doing!" Greg leveled a finger at Sherlock. "You're trying to liquor me up so you can take advantage."

"Is it really taking advantage if I want you to tie me to my bed and fuck me until I can't walk properly for a week?"

Greg opened his mouth to reply, but he couldn't get any words to come out. Instead he let out a frustrated grunt and downed the whiskey in one gulp. The burn helped settle his mind slightly. He took out his phone and began sending off the appropriate texts.

He heard a clatter and jingle of metal, then a clanking sound. His eyes flashed up. Sherlock was looking at him innocently. _Greg's_ handcuffs gleamed, sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

"God fucking damn it," Greg muttered mostly to himself.

"To be fair, you never really stood a chance," Sherlock smirked.

"Quiet, or I'm going to choke you with my tie."

"Is that a promise?"

Greg began to loosen his tie as he finished sending off the last text that he absolutely needed to send.

"Get over here, slut," his voice dropped to a lower, more dangerous register.

Sherlock slid off the couch onto his knees and shuffled over to where Greg was sitting. The DI looped his loose tie around Sherlock's neck and tugged it sharply—enough to start to restrict airflow, but not to cut it off completely. The taller man's eyes widened, dark with lust. Greg pulled the tie even tighter, making it nearly impossible for Sherlock to breathe.

"I am going to fucking destroy you," Greg barely whispered.

Sherlock let out a strangled moan.

Well, if Greg was going to hell, at least he'd have attractive company.

* * *

_Aggghhh. I know. Saturday. There will be smut by Saturday. Scout's honor!_


	11. Fun With Knives

_Fair warning: bloodplay. Yes. Consensual cutting with knives and ingesting of blood. This picks up right where the last chapter left off._

* * *

Greg counted to thirty before he let go of the tie and allowed Sherlock to gasp for breath. God. He was beautiful like that. Face flushed, eyes wide, wearing Greg's rumpled tie, with red marks around his neck. How was Greg supposed to control himself?

"You bring out the worst in me, you know that?" Greg sighed before tangling his fingers in Sherlock's hair and yanking. "It's not fair. You push, and you push, and then when I break, _I'm _the one that feels guilty about it. Because what if I ruin that pretty face of yours? That would be quite the travesty… strip. Slowly."

Sherlock's fingers trembled slightly as he began to unbutton his grey shirt. There was an obvious erection straining against his trousers. The taller man shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall to the ground.

"Don't make a mess, whore. Fold it up nicely." Greg tapped Sherlock lightly on the cheek.

Sherlock reached for his shirt wordlessly, folded it, and placed it on the table. He loosed his belt buckle and pulled down the zip of his trousers.

He began to stand. Greg tugged on the tie, pulling him back down.

"Forgetting something?" The older man cocked an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked flustered for a moment—and my, was it a wonderful sight. Then his expression cleared. "May I stand so I can remove my trousers, sir?"

"Yes, you may," Greg smirked.

The younger man stood slowly, and Greg let go of the tie to allow him rise to his full height. He toed off his shoes, then slid his trousers down at a leisurely pace. He folded them and placed them on the table next to his shirt, along with his socks. Bastard wasn't wearing pants. His cock stood at full attention against his belly, the crown of it a dusky pink. Straining was the first word that came to mind. _Gorgeous, _was the second.

Greg leaned back in his chair, and just for a moment, he pondered the madness he'd somehow tumbled into.

"Bring me my handcuffs." He didn't raise the volume of his voice above that of normal speech. But he tried to put a weight into each word. It's how he talked to particularly rowdy criminals when they started whining or pleading in the back of his cruiser to let them know there was nothing they could do about the current situation, and they might as well accept it.

Sherlock turned on his heel, giving Greg a nice view of that gloriously lush arse, and stepped towards the coffee table. He bent at the waist to pick up the cuffs, all but shoving those wondrous globes of flesh in Greg's face.

Greg couldn't help himself. He reached out and smacked the right cheek, painting a light pinkness over it. He supposed Sherlock's pale skin might have its advantages. He showed color so easily.

The taller man jumped slightly at the contact. But he straightened up, turned, and held the handcuffs out.

Greg took them and slapped one of the cuffs around Sherlock's already presented wrist. He fancied that he felt the man shiver at the little _click_ of the metal locking in place. He grabbed Sherlock's other arm roughly, and finished cuffing him. Oh, he did like the way it looked. Shiny metal around bony joints. Sherlock wearing nothing but Greg's tie, while the DI remained fully clothed.

It was indecent how hard Greg's cock had gotten.

Greg stood unhurriedly. Sherlock stared at him. Waiting. The DI wetted his lips, and began mentally reviewing all the utterly nasty things Sherlock had ever said to him over the phone.

Bruises were a big one. Choking as well. Those were easy… but Sherlock had also said he wanted to be cut. Perhaps Greg didn't possess Sherlock's intellect. But he was still a detective. Sherlock was a junkie. Pain released endorphins. Fear released adrenaline. Violent sex dropped a ridiculous blend of chemicals on the brain.

Really, it wasn't such a mystery why Sherlock wanted to be hurt.

"Stay," Greg commanded.

Then he walked towards Sherlock's kitchen. He opened several different drawers, hoping he wouldn't find any cocaine. It didn't take him long to locate the knives. He tested a few of them for sharpness, before deciding on a pairing knife, with a wooden handle, and a wicked edge. It was small, maneuverable, lovely in its own right.

He ran the blade under warm water, giving it a few swipes with the sponge sitting on the edge of the sink to make sure it was clean. Then he turned the water cold and let it run until the metal was near icy before he walked in measured steps back towards the living room. Sherlock swallowed hard, eyes fixed on Greg's hand.

The DI's heart was racing. Something, buried deep under the blanket of arousal, told him that this was wrong. He shouldn't hurt Sherlock. Shouldn't cut his skin open.

But _god_ he wanted to.

Greg grabbed hold of the chain between Sherlock's wrists and tugged it, setting their course for the bedroom. Sherlock didn't struggle. He followed without so much as a hint of protest.

Once they crossed the threshold, Greg backed Sherlock up against the wall and ran the tip of the knife along one of his cheekbones. He applied enough pressure to leave a thin, red scratch, but not enough to really cut.

"Are you afraid?" Greg's tongue felt heavy. Brain foggy with lust. Damn. He needed to focus. Now was not the time to slip.

"No, sir," Sherlock kept perfectly still. His body taught as a bowstring.

"I am."

Greg trailed the tip of the knife down Sherlock's neck and pressed in to make the first cut on the pectoral muscle a few centimeters above the right nipple. There were two rapid intakes of breath as blood pooled along the small incision, collecting at the edge before the tension released, and the first red trickle began to meander down Sherlock's torso.

"Have you been tested recently?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "You are a junkie."

"I don't share needles if that's what you're implying. And I can assure you that I'm disease free."

"You didn't answer my question." Greg drew another line of red, this time up along the underside of Sherlock's ribcage. It was long, and a bit deeper. Sherlock hissed slightly.

"I was tested last week. The results are in the top drawer on the bedside table. I thought you might be interested them at some point, sir. Aren't I a good little pet?" Sherlock smirked.

Greg maintained a neutral expression as he trailed another cut, this time diagonally across Sherlock's abdomen. He watched it bleed for a moment before walking over to the bedside table in question and pulling open the drawer. There were indeed some official looking papers, stating that a Mr. Sherlock Holmes was perfectly clean.

"Kneel on the bed," he nodded towards the mattress.

Sherlock complied, kneeling so that he was facing Greg. His cock somehow looked even harder than before. Greg trailed his index finger across the cut under Sherlock's ribs, and the younger man winced. The DI then held his finger up to Sherlock's mouth.

"Lick it."

_Jesus._

Sherlock's lips enveloped Greg's finger and his tongue swirled around it, licking off the blood. And then just sucking.

He couldn't take it. He pulled his hand away and shoved Sherlock onto his back. He set the knife aside carefully, and returned to the bedside table drawer for the tube of lubricant and the condom he'd spotted when he first opened it.

Sherlock had been getting ready for this. Of course he had. Greg squeezed some of the lubricant into his hand and kneeled at the edge of the bed, leaning forward to brush a slick finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. The younger man squirmed slightly.

"You want me to fuck you." He circled Sherlock's entrance, teasing, but not quite pushing in. "I bet you're just aching for it, aren't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock moaned.

Greg pushed his finger in, past the tight ring of muscle, biting his lip at the way Sherlock constricted and then relaxed around him. He picked up the knife with his other hand and pressed the dull edge of it right under the crown of Sherlock's cock.

The taller man froze. His breathing quickened. Greg slid another finger inside him, even though he knew Sherlock wasn't ready, and began to slowly stroke Sherlock's cock with the flat edge of the blade—taking care not to cut him. Just to hint at it.

He scissored his fingers, stretching Sherlock, pressing all the way in to find that eager little bundle of nerves inside him. Tiny gasp. Slight squirm. There it was. He teased a third finger in, and Sherlock moaned unabashedly.

"What a greedy little cock slave. I bet you can't wait to be impaled." Greg meant to sound cruel, but he probably sounded more astonished than anything.

Because nobody saw Sherlock Holmes like this. The wanton, sweating, writhing creature underneath him was nothing like the brilliant and infuriating man that usually stormed about his crime scenes.

Greg withdrew his fingers, unzipped his trousers and pulled his prick out. He ripped the foil packet with his teeth and rolled the condom on.

He leaned over Sherlock, supporting himself with the blade still in his fist, making sure the sharp end was pointing away from them. He positioned himself and sank in.

The taller man let out a small cry when Greg's cock pressed into him. Greg paused to let him adjust, but Sherlock bucked back against him.

"Please, sir, I need more."

Greg didn't need telling twice. He sank further into Sherlock, shifting his weight onto his free arm so he could press the edge of the knife against Sherlock's throat.

"Is this what you want?"

"God, yes," Sherlock was nearly breathless.

Greg began to slowly thrust deeper into sherlock, applying as little pressure to the knife as he possibly could. The younger man stayed still, wary of the game they were playing. But god, he was so beautifully warm and tight. So tight it almost hurt. It was like fucking a virgin. A somehow filthy, slutty virgin that moaned obscenely and begged for more.

The best of both worlds.

Greg could feel Sherlock's prick rubbing against his stomach, leaving wet spots on the front of his shirt. Probably blood stains too. That seemed like a thing Greg should care about, but he really, really didn't.

He was fully seated in Sherlock's arse, and the resistance had lessened so that it no longer bordered on painful. He gradually picked up speed, until he reached a moderate pace that Sherlock seemed to like. The younger man's lips were parted, breath ragged. Every so often, Greg heard the clink of the handcuffs. Sherlock was struggling just to feel the restraint.

Greg angled upward and Sherlock let out a noise that could only be called animalistic.

"Oh fuck—oh please sir, right there. Harder."

The DI complied, but he also pressed the knife down slightly, enough to sting. "You don't tell me what to do."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't think you are."

He tossed the knife aside, because he didn't trust himself, and dipped down to bite Sherlock on the neck until he tasted blood. Sherlock arched up against his thrusts, trying to drive him deeper. Greg pulled back, grabbed Sherlock's right thigh, and positioned it over his own shoulder. This did two things. It pinned Sherlock in place, and it changed the angle enough to make him go almost entirely slack with pleasure as Greg began to hammer against his prostate.

"You're such a lovely little tart," Greg grunted, "you love being filled. Claimed. I'm going to fuck the come out of you."

Sherlock just whimpered. Greg took that as a good sign, and continued driving into him at a punishing pace. He could feel the younger man trembling. The DI ran his finger across the cut on Sherlock's abdomen, pressing into the narrow wound, causing the blood flow to increase. Sherlock's breath hitched.

"Sir!" His voice was suddenly urgent.

Greg could feel the tension in Sherlock's internal muscles. Gathering, tightening, before the imminent release.

"Oh god... Sir, please, I'm going to come."

"Wrong. Try again." Greg reached up for the end of the tie and pulled, choking Sherlock. He counted to twenty before releasing him. Sherlock's cheeks were a dark crimson, from the lack of air, and improper level of arousal.

"Please let me come, sir. I can't—I can't take it."

"You're taking it right now. You're taking every inch of my cock like a greedy little whore."

Greg paused for just a moment, and Sherlock let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob. When he began to thrust again, the poor man was almost frantic. Writhing around, like it was going to help anything.

"I need it so badly," it was almost a whisper, "_master_."

Ungh.

Greg barely kept himself from toppling over the edge. "All right. Come."

The DI began thrusting erratically. As deep and fast as possible. Sherlock let out a series of rapid little moans, and then he was clenching down around Greg. Every spasm caused a near white-out of pleasure. That was it. The heat coiled uncomfortably in Greg's stomach. Then the orgasm ripped through him. Wrecking him. He crashed and burned on the surge of dopamine and endorphins—emptying himself into the condom.

He barely managed to withdraw and roll off of Sherlock before collapsing on the bed.

Silence rang through the room. The only noise was their labored breathing.

"You're quite twisted." Greg could hear the barely repressed chuckle in Sherlock's voice.

"Like you're not."

"That was a compliment, Detective Inspector."

Greg didn't have the energy to come up with a reply. He peeled the condom off and tossed it in the rubbish bin that stood in the corner. Sherlock sat up and looked down at the hand cuffs. "The key is in the drawer, if you would be so kind."

"I should leave you like that," Greg smiled. But he managed to struggle to a seated position and unlock the cuffs. Sherlocks wrists were slightly red. Greg didn't want to think about the urge he suddenly had to see them raw and bloody.

The DI zipped up his trousers, and buttoned his jacket to mostly hide the blood stains on his shirt.

He was already halfway down the street before he realized he'd left his tie around Sherlock's neck.

* * *

_Yep. Greg's not the only one who is twisted. I think I'm worse than both of them for writing this. At any rate, since these chapters are getting longer, and my other Fic is picking up momentum, I think we might have to drop back to weekly updates. Saturdays seem like a good day for it right? Right. I love you, smut friends._

_xoxo_


	12. He Actually Paid You?

_Fair warning: I promised arrest fetish porn in the description. I always keep my smutting promises. Besides that... prostitution fantasy. This is completely consensual insanity. But it gives some of the appearances of dub-con, because of the scene context. Just keep in mind that no really does mean yes here, and they have a safeword. But don't read if you're triggered by that sort of thing._

* * *

When Sherlock said he wanted to do an "arrest scene"—Greg should have been smart enough to say no. But then again, one didn't get themselves into Sherlock Holmes's bed by being smart. Apparently, one got there by being suggestible and more than a bit insane.

Because Greg showed up in the dark alleyway behind Sherlock's flat in his police cruiser, at 22:00 exactly, just like he was supposed to. Really, he didn't know what to expect. Perhaps Sherlock pretending to buy drugs? Committing some inane act of vandalism? Funny enough, Greg had even prepared himself for a fake murder scene. Lord knows Sherlock was far too obsessed with death for anybody to be truly comfortable.

What he did not expect, however, was to turn on his floodlights to see Sherlock bloody Holmes on his knees, sucking off a tall, blonde stranger.

The other man bolted the second he saw Greg's cruiser. But Sherlock leaned back and smiled easily, like he was drunk.

"Why, hello there!" He called in a sloppy voice.

Greg killed the engine, and sat there for about thirty seconds before he was capable of opening the door.

_What the actual fuck?_

"I was just um… I was helping my friend there tie his shoes," Sherlock hiccupped as Greg approached. "No need for there to be a problem, right? I'll just be on my way…"

Sherlock started to stand, but Greg slid out his nightstick and gently pressed it against Sherlock's shoulder as a hint for him to stay on his knees. The taller man looked up at him with wide eyes, as if he were suddenly frightened.

Sherlock was a great actor. He probably wasn't drunk. Probably wasn't afraid. But Greg's stomach was twisting with some vague predatory instinct.

Part of him hoped Sherlock knew what he was getting both of them into. Pushing Greg's buttons like this. Dragging the violence out of him. Pleading. Begging. Yes, hurt me.

But what would happen when this went to far?

"Public intoxication, indecent exposure, lewdness… it's all enough to take you in," Greg's voice had dropped dangerously low. "What the hell are you playing at?"

"I'm sorry—I just—it's a cold night. It's not so easy to find somewhere to stay, and it's not cheap either. We all do what we need to in order to get by."

"Oh, so he _paid_ you? You're telling me that you're a _whore_?"

Greg slowly ran his nightstick up the length of Sherlock's neck, tilting his chin upwards. Maybe this was a _scene_. But the real rage boiled right beneath Greg's skin. Really, he had no claim to Sherlock. He knew that. But it didn't mean that the bastard had to go and suck somebody off in front of him.

Sherlock licked his lips. Body tensing. Frantic.

"Please, sir, I'm not. Just… I got evicted from my flat. I don't have anywhere to go—"

"Excuses, excuses. I bet a posh little tart like you gets all around town. I bet they're just lining up to have you, aren't they?"

Sherlock swallowed hard.

"I can't get arrested again," his voice was high and breathless, "I won't survive in prison, sir. Just look at me… how about a free ride? If you let me go, I'll do whatever you want."

Greg tapped the long wooden club against Sherlock's cheek. "Soliciting a Detective Inspector? You're either stupid, or you're quite confident in your skills. Because if you don't give the _best_ head I've ever had, you'll be spending a nice long time in a cell."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock breathed. "That's… I'll tell them you made me suck you off. You'll get in trouble as well."

"First of all, you _offered _it. Anything I want. And second, who do you think they'll believe? A respected officer of the law, or a back alley slut?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it, floundering somewhere between horrified and indignant. God, he was too good at this.

Greg pressed his nightstick against Sherlock's plump lips. It occurred to him that perhaps this _was_ the endgame. Driving Greg completely mad—for no other purpose than Sherlock's own sexual satisfaction and amusement.

One thing was certain. When Sherlock opened his mouth and began to carefully fellate the end of the nightstick, he knew that there would never be another fuck like Sherlock Holmes. Other people could be submissive and slutty. Other people could be manipulative and domineering. But none of them were the complete package, like the delicious morsel kneeling in front of him.

Greg drew the stick away slowly. He circled Sherlock, while the younger man stayed kneeling, almost perfectly still.

The DI glanced up. There were several windows above them. All of them dark. But that didn't mean somebody couldn't look out and misinterpret what was happening. He reached down, grabbed Sherlock by the back of the neck and squeezed hard.

"You'll stay down if you know what's good for you."

And then he walked over to his cruiser to turn off the floodlights, drowning the alley in night once again. He didn't look back to see whether or not Sherlock had stayed still. He wasn't worried. Sherlock _got off_ on following orders. At least, in these types of situations.

Greg's eyes adjusted to see Sherlock's pale silhouette in the middle of the alley. Still on his knees, down on the dirty asphalt. It couldn't be comfortable. Greg tried not to think about how the blood rushed south at the idea of Sherlock feeling pain.

He waited until he was standing close to Sherlock before he unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out. The DI rubbed the head of his prick over Sherlock's slick lips, teasing, but not pushing in. He could barely make out Sherlock's face from the dim glow of the streetlights. They were in the shadow. But still vaguely visible.

Greg's heart pounded, making him feel nauseous and ridiculously aroused in the same breath.

This was filthy.

Somebody else had been fucking Sherlock's mouth less than ten minutes ago. Yet his cock throbbed eagerly, urging him on to take his sloppy seconds and like it.

"Well go on then, show me how fucking special you are, slag. Let's see what you get all those pathetic boys to pay for."

He placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's head, to assure him that neither of them was going anywhere. And Sherlock parted his lips, slowly, almost timidly, taking Greg into his mouth.

And _fuck_.

Greg almost wondered if Sherlock really was a whore—if he'd sucked cock for drugs before. Because he was just too damn gifted with that quick little tongue of his. It was just everywhere. Laving, applying pressure, friction, moisture, heat.

The DI didn't even bother to suppress a groan when he began thrusting into Sherlock's throat, and the younger man gagged. Greg was sloppy with Sherlock's spit. Dizzy with the feeling of being in such complete control. Part of him wanted to just end it there. To come down Sherlock's throat and drive away. The bastard would probably like it. Being used and then left behind like a crumpled piece of trash.

But then again, Greg had driven the cruiser here for a purpose. It'd be a shame not to use it.

He slowly pulled away. Sherlock panted. Was he shaking slightly? Probably not fear. More like anticipation. It's an integral part of almost every junkie. They like the moment right before the high, just as much as they like the actual drug.

"On your feet," Greg grunted.

And when Sherlock stood, he pushed him towards the cruiser. He prodded and poked until Sherlock was standing in front of the hood of the car, with his thighs against the grille and his arse against Greg's erection. Then Greg grabbed his hip with one hand, and shoved him forward with they other, so he was splayed out across the hood, bent at the waist. He knocked Sherlock's legs further apart, and pulled his arms behind his back. As he slapped the handcuffs around Sherlock's wrists, the younger man let out a breathy gasp.

Greg leaned forward, using his weight to force Sherlock down until his pale cheek was pressed against the cold metal of the car.

"Your mouth was nice, slut. But I've thought it over, and I think I'd like to have the full experience before I lock you away."

"Sir…" Sherlock squirmed underneath him, "I don't _do _that."

"Pardon?" Greg licked a small stripe up the back of Sherlock's neck.

"I mean—I've never—people only pay for blowjobs. I don't let them fuck me. Can't I just finish you with my mouth, sir?"

That gave the DI pause for a minute. Sherlock hadn't safeworded. In fact, he was squirming back against Greg's cock. But that had sounded an awful lot like _no_. A bit too much for comfort.

"We're doing what _I _want. Not what you'd prefer. Maybe people don't pay for it, but I bet you've been fucked before. With a lush arse like yours, I'd never believe you were a virgin." Greg sounded a bit less certain. Christ. He'd pressed a knife against Sherlock's neck and shagged the hell out of him less than three weeks ago. Why was he so nervous?

Maybe Sherlock seemed to catch onto the change. Because he went slack and pliant underneath Greg.

"Of course I'm not a virgin," he said bitterly, "and if your sticking it in me will keep me out of jail—by all means, proceed, _Detective Inspector._ Just do try to hurry it along. I do have other people that want my time this evening."

The anger flared again, making Greg go hot and cold at the same time. He reached underneath Sherlock and unbuttoned his trousers. He pulled down the zip and yanked the fabric down until the younger man's bare arse was exposed.

He pulled a small tube of lubricant out of his pocket and squeezed it into his hand. Sherlock jerked and shuddered when he pressed his middle finger into that tight little hole. He wasn't gentle. Didn't wait or give Sherlock time to adjust. But he could practically feel the heat of arousal radiating off the other man's body.

"Please," Sherlock whispered. It almost sounded like a sob.

"Please what? Please stop? Please give you more?" Greg pointedly brushed against Sherlock's erection with his free hand. "Christ. You're _enjoying_ this, aren't you? You like to feel dirty and violated."

Greg added another finger and Sherlock let out a choked little moan. Finger number three went in shortly afterwards. It was too fast. Greg knew it. But his prick was throbbing. Sherlock pushed back against him, almost imperceptibly.

"You're ready for it." Greg nudged against Sherlock's prostate, forcing a full-body shiver through the other man. "I can feel how much you want my cock inside you."

Sherlock let out a noise, that wasn't exactly a conformation or denial. Just an incoherent, animalistic sound. Greg withdrew his fingers, rolled on a condom, lined up his cock, and pressed into Sherlock's searing-hot little hole.

It was a measured advance. Inch by inch, Sherlock's body swallowed him up. He never paused. Pressed in slowly enough so that he wouldn't cause any serious injuries. But quickly enough so that it was sure to hurt.

Sherlock gasped and panted, muscles clenching around the intrusion. Greg began to thrust. Deep and confidant. At first, Sherlock squirmed around like he was trying to get away from the contact. But it rapidly changed, so that he bucked back in an effort to get more.

_So wrong_. But Greg felt an odd sense of triumph at Sherlock's change from _maybe no_ to _definitely yes_.

The DI picked up speed. Pounding Sherlock into the hood of the car. The vehicle was bouncing up and down in time with their motions, rocking on the wheels. Sherlock grunted and whimpered when Greg angled down. Just enough to hit the right spot most of the time.

The tension was building much too quickly. Greg was surfing too close to the edge. He was the stubborn type. He never liked to get off before his partner did. But he didn't know how much longer he'd be able to last like this.

The cold air crowding in around them. The squeaking car wheels. Sherlock's fevered breathing. The intensity of repeatedly pressing into Sherlock's impossibly tight body.

He reached down and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick, pumping it in time with his motions. Sherlock let out a tiny gasp.

It wasn't more than ten seconds before Sherlock stiffened, and his muscles clamped down around Greg. His cock twitched in Greg's hand, covering it in warm ejaculate. The DI let himself go. The heat burned through him, in waves of tingling pleasure as his cock pulsed inside Sherlock, filling the condom.

There was a moment of suspension. Silence. When the reality of the situation began to creep in around them. Greg quickly withdrew, pulling off the condom, and tossing it in a nearby dumpster. Sherlock stood unsteadily, and Greg unlocked the handcuffs.

"Would you like a drink? I could certainly use one after that." Sherlock ran his fingers absentmindedly through his hair.

"Maybe… I dunno," Greg sighed. Suddenly bone tired.

"It's on me." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled fifty-pound note.

Greg stared for a few moments before the implications clicked together. "Wait… that guy _actually_ paid you?"

"That doesn't seem like the sort of thing I should tell a Detective Inspector," Sherlock shrugged.

Before Greg knew what he was doing, he opened the back door of the cruiser and shoved Sherlock unceremoniously inside. Sherlock struggled. Almost enough to win. But then Greg slammed the door, effectively trapping Sherlock.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled through the glass of the window. "Let me out."

"If you want to play whore, be prepared for the consequences," Greg folded his arms and watched in amusement.

Sherlock went still and glared menacingly. Greg got in the driver's seat and started the car. They began to trundle through the quiet streets.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock snapped.

"Back to the Yard. I need to drop off the car."

"Yes, well, let me out then do that."

"Nope. You're coming back to my place."

"Why?"

"Because I can't let you get away with breaking so many laws in front of me. And instead of throwing you in a cell, I'm going to tie you down and see if I can whip some of the crazy out of you."

Greg looked in the rearview mirror. Sherlock's smilie couldn't be described as anything other than _smug_.

Damn it. Is this what he wanted the whole time?

In the end, Greg decided it was better just not to think about it too thoroughly. He'd be ruined after this was all over. No question. But he was also quite certain it would be worth it.

* * *

_I'm so sorry I didn't post this on time! It wasn't my fault! This site decided to stop working literally twenty minutes before I finished editing :X_

_But ah well. It's only a day late. __See you next Saturday!_


	13. Daddy

_Fair warning: I am going to hell for writing this chapter. __**This is daddy kink.**__ Yes. That means two consenting adults, participating in ageplay, and incest role-play. Real incest is not sexy. I understand and completely agree. This is not real incest, obviously. But if this sounds like something you don't want to read, please skip this chapter. That being said, if you're the adventurous type—I did try to make this as non squicky as possible. This isn't even really my kink, but I wanted to try writing it because a friend asked for it. If you give it a shot, and find you enjoy it, don't worry. You're no worse of a person than I am :D_

* * *

When Greg arrived back at his flat, looking forward to dinner, a shower, and a long sleep, he was mildly shocked to see Sherlock Holmes sitting on his couch, smoking a cigarette. Mildly shocked, but not intensely. The git hadn't even opened a window. The entire room stank of smoke.

"I could lock you up for breaking and entering," Greg let out a small sigh.

"You won't," Sherlock replied curtly.

He was in a mood, then. Greg put on the kettle and made two cups. He set one in front of Sherlock, and sank down into his armchair. They sat in semi-comfortable silence for a while. It wasn't so late. The sun had only set a few hours ago. Usually, Sherlock wouldn't show up like this until unreasonable hours of the night.

Greg knew better than to ask any questions. If Sherlock wanted sex, he'd make it clear. If he wanted to just sit there and be a prat for an hour or so before storming back out again, well, Greg supposed he could cope with that too.

Eventually, Greg turned on the telly and watched football reruns. Then he got a beer and switched over to some late night comedy show. The kind of thing Sherlock would normally scoff at. But the tall, pale man offered no comment whatsoever.

After the show ended, Greg got up to change out of his work clothes and make himself some dinner. When he returned to the living room, with a ham sandwich and another beer, Sherlock was sitting on the floor. Right beside Greg's chair.

Greg half raised an eyebrow at this new development. But he settled back into his chair. Sherlock turned his head to look up at him. And god, those eyes—so wide and expressive—staring up at him like he was the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Greg felt a bit self-conscious taking a bite of his sandwich under such intense scrutiny. But he was bloody hungry. So he stared eating.

Sherlock waited until Greg was about halfway through the sandwich before he spoke.

"May I have some? Just a small piece."

And everything suddenly shifted. A strange heat squirmed within Greg's stomach. God. This wasn't good. It shouldn't be so easy for Sherlock to make him feel like this. Just a few fucking words and Greg's blood was already racing feverishly though his veins.

Greg tore off a section of the sandwich and held it in front of Sherlock's mouth. The taller man smiled and opened his mouth, accepting the tidbit and letting his lips brush against Greg's fingers ever so slightly.

Fuck.

Greg hadn't known he could be turned on by feeding someone. But his mind settled firmly into the gutter and all he could think about was his cock sliding into Sherlock's mouth.

"Can I please have a bit more?" Sherlock looked up at Greg with wide, innocent eyes. It was uncanny. He looked ten years younger. Slumped there on the floor. Legs crossed, folded in on himself, asking to be fed.

Greg took another piece of sandwich and held it out. Sherlock accepted it greedily, this time licking Greg's fingers.

Ugh.

The DI took a long swig of his beer in some misplaced attempt to steady himself. Sherlock leaned against Greg's leg and let out a small yawn.

"Daddy, I'm sleepy, is it bed time yet?" Sherlock's voice was softer, smaller, almost a whisper. How did he do that?

Greg's heart went into overdrive. _Daddy._ That didn't sound right at all. Shit. Sherlock had gone and started a new game without even telling him about it.

But the younger man removed his coat slowly. He wasn't wearing his usual button down. Instead he had on a thin, soft looking t-shirt. It wasn't a very large change, granted. It wouldn't look so unusual to an outside observer. But the fact that he'd come to Greg's flat wearing something different, well… he knew it meant things were about to take one of those abrupt left turns.

Sherlock leaned against Greg's leg again, giving another yawn and rubbing his eyes slightly. It was obviously Greg's move. To either say he was uncomfortable with where this was headed or to dive on in. He wasn't sure about this. Because honestly, Sherlock _was_ quite a bit younger than him. Thirteen years younger, to be exact. And yes, Greg wasn't anywhere near old enough to be Sherlock's father. But still. It seemed like dangerous ground to flirt with.

Something Sherlock had said over the phone before floated back to mind—_I've always liked older men._ Was this particular kink the thing he'd been implying? Should Greg have been expecting it? Perhaps. Then again, trying to anticipate what Sherlock wanted was like trying to predict the path of a tornado. Impossible and dangerous for all involved.

Still. Greg didn't see any real reason why he shouldn't give this to Sherlock if he was asking for it. It was just a game. Between consenting adults.

So he reached out and stroked Sherlock's hair gently. "All right, son. Go on. Daddy will be there to tuck you in after he finishes his drink."

For a moment, the innocence broke. The _smugness _threatened to creep back in around Sherlock's sharp features. But then the younger man stood. Hunching his shoulders over slightly, so he didn't seem quite so tall.

"I messed my pajamas last night, Daddy. Shall I just go to bed with no clothes on at all?" Sherlock kept his eyes wide and his voice soft. God. It shouldn't turn Greg on. But hell. The thought of Sherlock taking his clothes off under any circumstance was bound to be sexy.

So he took another swig of beer. "Yes. We haven't got another clean pair of pajamas for you, now do we? Tomorrow's wash day."

Sherlock looked towards the ground, cheeks even going slightly rosy "I'm sorry. It's just… I woke up in the middle of the night feeling very odd…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Odd? Were you sick?" Greg prompted.

"No. I was… well I got solid between my legs. I didn't know why. But I rubbed it once and it felt good. So I kept doing it, and then I got all sticky."

Jesus fucking Christ. Greg should have known. When Sherlock played games, he _really_ played them. And the bloody sociopath could have won Oscars if he'd chosen to go into acting instead of crime solving. Greg tried to take a few deep breaths. His cock twitched. A strange mixture of arousal and guilt was rising in him far too quickly.

He really didn't know how much of this he could take.

"Was that a bad thing to do?" Sherlock bit his lip ever so slightly.

"No, Sherlock…" Greg said carefully, "it was very natural."

"So it's ok if I do it again?" Sherlock's hands wandered to his belt buckle and began toying with it. "Because it felt really nice, Daddy."

Greg groaned. He couldn't help it. God damn it. Sherlock was trying to break his brain into tiny pieces, wasn't he? This as just all some huge experiment to see exactly how far he could push the DI before he went completely mad.

"Can I show you?" Sherlock asked breathlessly.

The DI's vocal chords no longer seemed capable of moving. So he just nodded. Clinging to the beer in his hand like it was his only anchor to reality.

Sherlock slowly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. He pulled them down and stepped out of them. His _pants_. They had rocket ships and cartoon astronauts on them. Like they were made for a child.

Greg's stomach twisted. He focused on Sherlock's body. How tall he was—all the sharp, fully formed angles of a sickeningly attractive adult. His blood pressure lowered, getting somewhere closer to normal.

Then Sherlock slowly, timidly, began rubbing at his obvious erection through the bright-blue fabric of his pants.

He didn't grasp his cock and stroke it. No. He rubbed it with a flat hand. Clumsily. Fumbling. Like he wasn't sure exactly what he was supposed to be doing. Every so often his fingers would graze against the area right under the head of his cock and he'd let out a strangled little, "oh." But then he'd go right back to his unfocused rubbing of the shaft.

And if Greg hadn't been hard before, he bloody well was now.

Perhaps it was the innocence of it. The insane contrast of such a dark, brooding, mess of a man—playing at being so vulnerable and inexperienced. The arousal crested. Beginning to drown out the more reasonable parts of Greg's mind. The parts that said, _this is wrong. Stop. Stop it right now_.

"Son," he cleared his throat. His voice was thick, muddled. "There's a better way to do that, you know."

Sherlock ran his tongue along his lower lip, in a decidedly adult gesture. Greg saw the flare of lust in his eyes for a moment. Well, at least he was really getting off on this. He wasn't just doing it to torment Greg.

"Really? How?"

Greg steeled himself for the words about to come out of his mouth. "Come over here and sit on Daddy's lap. I'll show you."

He should have felt ashamed. He would have. Except for that way that sentence just _killed_ Sherlock. He didn't know if he'd ever seen the switch flip so hard. For a moment, the taller man just stood there. Panting. He let out a small, anxious noise at the back of his throat. His cheeks flushed. He even swayed slightly. Like maybe his knees were going to buckle. He unconsciously squeezed his own cock. Just once. Before he could collect himself enough to walk over to Greg's armchair and sit down—straddling him.

Their lips were mere centimeters apart. Greg saw nothing, but the vast, dark expanse of Sherlock's blown-out pupils.

Greg reached down and slowly slid his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pants. He pulled the fabric down enough to expose the other man, and then gently grasped his cock, stroking it once from root to tip.

Sherlock shuddered and gasped.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" Greg asked quietly. His voice a lot more husky than he'd intended.

"Yes, Daddy… _please, _keep going."

Greg obliged, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's length a bit more firmly. He established a slow, insistent rhythm. Occasionally swiping his thumb over the head of the other man's cock to relish the pre-come that slowly leaked out.

"Do you want to practice?" Greg asked gruffly after a few moments. "You could practice on Daddy."

A full-body shiver shot through the man sitting on Greg's lap. Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the button on Greg's trousers, pulling down the zip far too eagerly. Reaching into Greg's pants and pulling out his cock.

Sherlock began to stroke Greg in firm, practiced motions. His act was obviously starting to break down. He moaned breathily, and bucked into Greg's hand. Every breath came heavy and frantic.

And Greg bloody loved it. He loved that he was able to take apart somebody like Sherlock Holmes. To show that he was still human, underneath everything else.

Greg let go of Sherlock's prick and the taller man let out a small whine of protest. But then the DI grabbed the younger man's hips, pulling him closer, until their cocks were touching. He wrapped his hand around both of them and began to stroke them together.

Sherlock slumped. Seemingly unable to cope with this new development. He buried his face in the curve where Greg's neck turned into his shoulder and let out a lot of not so quiet whimpers.

"That's it, love," Greg ran his other hand down Sherlock's back soothingly, "it's all right to just let go. Daddy doesn't mind if you get him sticky. We can wash afterwards."

"Oh god," Sherlock whispered. He trembled. His hands wrapped around Greg's biceps, squeezing hard.

Greg could feel the younger man's body tensing against him. He slid his hand down to grab a handful of Sherlock's plush arse.

"Go on," Greg grunted, "show Daddy how you messed your pajamas. He wants to see you make a mess right now."

And that was it. Sherlock let out a high-pitched moan, and then Greg felt his cock twitch. The warm, viscous liquid dribbled onto his hand, covering their pricks and their shirts. Greg didn't last long after that. Sherlock stayed limp against him while he stroked himself to a quick completion.

The orgasm spiked through him. Greg's brain swam on the high seas of dopamine. God it felt so good. Sherlock's warm body pressed against him. Chest heaving. The tingling pleasure pulsed through Greg's nerve endings. His heart pounded in his chest, so fast and hard it made him ache.

And then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his, kissing him slow and deep, and full of emotion.

They'd never kissed like that before. Never after sex. Always before. In the heat of the moment. Crazy with lust. All inhibitions left at the door.

But as Greg slowly came back to himself, Sherlock didn't stop kissing him. No. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders, pulling them more closely together, and Greg's hands naturally fell to rest on Sherlock's waist. Their tongues tangled lazily. Swiping against each other. Wrestling with no goal in mind.

When they did eventually break apart, Sherlock didn't get off him. He let his head rest on Greg's shoulder. The DI traced aimless patterns over the expanse of the younger man's back with the tips of his fingers.

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly. Almost inaudibly.

"You're welcome, I suppose." Greg shrugged.

And he kept waiting for Sherlock to get up and dress himself. To light a cigarette and walk haughtily out the door. But he didn't. He stood eventually, but only to offer a hand and help Greg to his feet. The DI barely registered that Sherlock was dragging them towards the bedroom. He didn't understand until Sherlock had stripped down and climbed under the covers.

Greg shed his sticky clothes and clambered in beside Sherlock. The younger man cuddled up to him, with his back against Greg's chest, pulling the DI's arms around him. He wanted to ask. What does this mean? Why now?

But he didn't.

Instead Greg drifted off into an easy sleep, wrapped around Sherlock's thin body, listening to the younger man's quiet breathing.

* * *

_Yep. I think every week I just progress further into depravity. I blame kink meme and you people. Because you are wonderful enablers. And gosh, have I told you that I loved you? Never stop being amazing._

_I'll see you next Saturday for more lovely smut-ventures. _

_xoxo_


	14. No Means Yes

_Fair warning: I swear to god this gets filthier every week. This chapter gives all the appearances of **non**__**-con**__. But as we've said before. There is ALL the consent involved. Pretty much, this is rape fantasy. Please do not read if it will trigger you. There's also some orgasm denial, and other general depravity. A plot is starting to develop in spite of itself. I don't know why this keeps happening to me. Have fun!_

* * *

Lestrade had the weekend off. He'd requested it for his daughter's birthday, only to find her mother was taking her to Cornwall. She'd be gone from Thursday evening to Sunday morning. The best he could hope for was a phone call.

So when he arrived back at his flat on Friday night, he nearly drowned in the overwhelming sense of loneliness. Greg wasn't used to time off. Work kept him busy. Work kept him from thinking about the fact that he was turning forty-four in three months, and he didn't have a family anymore. All of his friends were married. Had their own lives to live.

What did he have?

A dingy flat, a daughter that liked to pretend he didn't exist, and a narcissistic sociopath that called him for the occasional perverted little shag.

Well.

A shag didn't sound so bad at that particular moment. But Sherlock always called first. Greg wasn't sure why he'd never tried to initiate one of their meetings. It just hadn't felt right.

It still didn't feel right.

So he waited. He sat on his couch and drank a few beers. He thought about going out to a Pub. But that would mean showering. Changing into nice clothes. Seeing _people_.

Perhaps tomorrow.

He was too tired to put in the effort of hitting on pretty girls that were a bit too young for him, with a likelihood of being rejected over and over. Greg wasn't a bad looking bloke. He'd always done pretty well with women. But he was getting to be the age where people would look at him funny if he went to a club. And it had been a long time since he went out looking to go home with somebody. He was out of practice.

**You busy tonight?**

He typed out the text carefully and read it six times before he sent it. He didn't want to sound desperate. Just curious. He certainly didn't check his mobile every thirty seconds while he pretended to watch telly. At least he didn't have to wait long.

**Not particularly. Is there a case? - SH**

Greg sighed and wished there were one.

**No.**

**Oh. So you want to have sex - SH**

**I didn't say that.**

**You don't want to have sex? - SH**

**I'm not objecting to the idea. Just that's not necessarily the only reason I'd text you.**

**You already said there wasn't a case. So yes, in fact, it is - SH**

Greg really wasn't sure how to respond to that. True, he and Sherlock didn't spend time together outside of work, or their odd little trysts. But it just sounded so… _cold_.

**You don't need to pretend you simply enjoy my company, Lestrade. Few people do. I can be there in about an hour - SH**

All Greg could do was stare at the screen of his mobile. Because for a moment, it seemed like he might have glimpsed the lonely man underneath all of Sherlock's defense mechanisms. The man that didn't expect anybody to want him around unless he was being useful or offering a filthy fuck. The man that drowned himself in drugs, even when he was a bloody genius. The man that was so used to manipulating other people into getting what he wanted… he'd forgotten what it was like to need somebody for no reason at all.

Greg shook himself. What was he saying? He really shouldn't be getting all mushy over somebody like Sherlock. That'd be the last nail in his coffin, wouldn't it? Sherlock would probably think it highly amusing. But that would be all.

Greg did have a nasty habit of looking for love in all the wrong places. His ex was a prime example. But this… this would be a new threshold of idiocy. Even for him.

**All right. I'll leave the door open. **

* * *

"I'm going to struggle and pretend I don't want this," Sherlock said crisply as he walked through the door. He slid out of his coat and hung it neatly on the rack. "Unless I safeword, feel free to subdue me in any way you see fit. Questions?"

Greg blinked for a moment.

"Really, this would work better if you were the aggressor," Sherlock smirked. "It's hard to fight against nothing."

Well, then. All right.

Greg stood slowly and sauntered over to Sherlock. It was easy. Far too easy, to back Sherlock up against the wall. Place an arm on either side of him, to give the illusion that he was trapped.

"So glad you could stop by, Sherlock," Lestrade breathed against the taller man's face. "We've got some important matters to discuss."

"What sort of matters?" Sherlock frowned, squirming slightly. He looked suddenly uncomfortable. Staring at Greg, confused. Like he didn't know perfectly well what was happening. Like he hadn't just _asked_ for it.

"Oh, real grand things." Greg leaned in just a bit more so their noses were practically touching. "Like how lovely you'd look with my prick in your mouth."

"_Lestrade_," Sherlock gasped, and he really did sound shocked. "I… no. You know I'm asexual."

"That's just because you haven't taken a ride on _my_ cock before, love. I'm sure you'll change your tune."

Greg stole just one, rather chaste kiss before Sherlock pushed him away. "Stop it, what are you doing?"

Sherlock was quick. Greg had no illusions about it. He was only able to grab a hold of Sherlock's shoulder and spin him around because Sherlock was letting him do it. But it still sent a thrilling little jolt through him, when he had Sherlock pinned against the wall, his face pressed against the ugly yellow wall paper. Greg held tightly to both of his wrists.

"You'll like it," Greg murmured, "I promise. It will feel _so _good, Sherlock. Have you even had a proper fuck before?"

Even though he couldn't see Sherlock's face, his body language was perfect. Embarrassment. Shame.

"Oh," Greg breathed, "you're a virgin are you?"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, "let go of me."

Greg let his rapidly stiffening erection press against Sherlock's clothed arse. "Well then, I'll be gentle. Pretty little thing like you deserves a nice shag."

It was when he pulled Sherlock away from the wall that the real acting started. Sherlock struggled. Rather violently. Lestrade could barely keep a grip on him. They made it about halfway across the living room before they tumbled to the floor. Sherlock writhed and crawled away, but Greg managed to pin him down. Or rather, Greg sat on him. Knees on either side of Sherlock's waist. Hands pinned above the head. Both men breathed heavily.

Sherlock's face clearly displayed panic. Wide. Scared. Squirming away from points of contact.

"I bet you've never even kissed anybody," Greg dipped down to lick a stripe up the side of Sherlock's neck.

The detective shivered underneath him. "Fuck off."

"How do you know you don't like it if you've never tried it, pet?"

"Hmm… let's think… how do you know you wouldn't enjoy sticking your hand in a blender? The very idea is repulsive—"

Greg cut him off by pressing their mouths together. It was as if, for a split second, Sherlock forgot what was happening. Because he kissed Greg back, slow and tender. Greg felt Sherlock's breath catch when their tongues tangled.

But then he remembered. Back to struggling. Doing his very best to push Greg off of him. Greg had no idea how they were meant to get to his bedroom like this. But by god, it was fun trying.

He let Sherlock up enough for him to start crawling. Get to his feet. Then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's midsection and all but dragged him to the bedroom. Sherlock did help him out a bit. Stumbling in the right direction half the time, as he squirmed and thrashed.

Greg shoved Sherlock down onto the mattress and sat on him once again. The beside drawer was just in reach. He'd taken to keeping some rope and a few pairs of padded leather handcuffs in there. Just in case.

He secured the end of one cuff to the bed post and grabbed Sherlock's right arm. Sherlock's fight had mostly died down now that they were on the bed. But he let out a small noise as Greg pulled the straps tight around his narrow wrist.

"_Please_," Sherlock said quietly, "stop."

Greg ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, pushing the hair back, out of his face. "Shh, it's ok, darling. Just let me take care of you."

And Sherlock's eyebrows raised ever so slightly as if to say—_quite the tender assailant, aren't we?_ Greg could give a fuck. This was his game too, after all, and he'd play it how he bloody well liked.

He secured Sherlock's other arm to the bedpost, and slowly began unbuttoning the taller man's shirt. Kissing new skin as he exposed it. Sherlock bit his lip, and refused to look him in the eye, still minutely shifting away from his touch.

"This will be a lot better if you relax," Greg murmured.

"I don't care," Sherlock snarled.

Greg slowly pulled off Sherlock's belt and unzipped his trousers. Tossed his shoes to the side. Slid everything off so Sherlock was naked from the waist down.

To be perfectly fair, anybody that had Sherlock Holmes chained to their bed would probably do terrible things to him. He practically begged for it. All smooth skin and sharp angles. The younger man's cheeks were flushed. His cock strained, stiff, and just a bit wet at the tip.

Greg palmed at the erection and chuckled, "What's this then?"

"A physical reaction," Sherlock snapped. "It doesn't mean anything."

The DI wrapped a loose fist around Sherlock's cock and gave it one slow stroke. The taller man let out an involuntary moan.

"Physical reaction, eh? Definitely not a sign of arousal. A sign that you _want_ this." Greg continued his slow motions and Sherlock squirmed.

"I… stop it. It's just that I'm not used to physical contact in that particular area. It… ugh…" He trailed off, lips parted slightly. Eyes just a bit unfocused

"That's it, love," Greg murmured. "Feels good, doesn't it? That's ok. You're allowed to enjoy it."

Sherlock bit his lip. For the most part, he stayed rigidly still. But Greg slowly increased the pace of his motions, focusing most of the direct stimulation around the head of Sherlock's cock. He slipped a finger down between Sherlock's arse cheeks. Not inside. He just grazed against Sherlock's entrance, and the taller man let out a shocked little gasp.

Greg watched carefully. He'd fucked Sherlock enough times to know when he was getting close. The taller man licked his lips. He began to thrust up into Greg's hand ever so slightly. Muscles going tense involuntarily. Eyes closed. Greg gave him that little bit extra. A bit more speed. A bit more pressure. A finger teasing at his hole, but not dipping inside.

Three rapid intakes of breath. A little moan.

Then Greg ceased all motion.

Sherlock let out a small cry. "What are you doing?" He gasped. "I…"

"What? Were you about to come?" Greg asked innocently.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Looking somehow flustered and angry in the same breath. "I don't see what the point in teasing me is. Either let me get off, or use me and be done with it."

"Oh… no… I'm going to take my time with you, love. You're going to _beg_ for my cock. And that is a promise."

He reached for the open drawer and pulled out a tube of lubricant. But he didn't open it right away. He set it aside, and grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed.

"Lift your hips," he tapped Sherlock's arse as he gave the order.

Sherlock grumbled, but complied, and Greg placed the pillow underneath him. Greg arranged Sherlock how he wanted him. Feet flat on the mattress, knees bent, and pelvis angled upward as much as possible.

He laid down on his stomach. The angle was still a bit awkward, but he didn't want to release the restraints. He carefully pulled Sherlock's arse cheeks apart and tentatively flicked his tongue out to touch against the puckered little hole.

Sherlock's entire body jerked.

He smelled mostly of soap. Greg already knew Sherlock was in the habit of cleaning himself before he came over. He'd never had a sexual partner that was quite so meticulous about such things. But he couldn't say that he didn't appreciate it as he began to lick against Sherlock's hole in steady, slow motions.

"_Oh,"_ Sherlock whispered.

It had been a long time since Greg did this. His wife hadn't liked it. But he'd done it for quite a few blokes when he was at university. It wasn't so difficult to remember. Mostly just languid, circular swipes of the tongue around the little ring of muscle. He wasn't quite brave enough to dip inside, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

The taller man seemed to be doing his best to bite back the moans and whines—but even a man like Sherlock Holmes only had so much self-control. When Greg reached up and began touching Sherlock's cock again, it nearly sent him over the edge.

Greg paused, withdrawing his hand, but continuing the small motions with his tongue. Not enough to make Sherlock come, certainly. But more than enough to tease him quite terribly.

After a few minutes, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock's prick and began slowly stroking him. Sherlock let out a noise that couldn't be described as anything other than a squeak. His hole fluttered against Greg's tongue. Thighs went ridged and tense. He panted raggedly.

Greg stopped.

He pulled back, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

Sherlock looked utterly wrecked. A thin sheen of sweat covered his entire body. His cheeks were pinker than Greg had ever seen them. He gasped like the room had suddenly run out of air to breathe.

"You're a sadist," Sherlock growled.

Greg just smiled. He leaned forward and planted a sloppy kiss on the head of Sherlock's cock before he pulled back again. He grabbed the tube of lubricant and squeezed some into his hand.

Sherlock went still as Greg slid a slick finger into him. Just the tip. He paused, letting Sherlock feel the intrusion before he pushed the rest of the way inside. He grazed against Sherlock's prostate once. Just to see him jump. But then for the most part, avoided it. Sherlock was already too on edge. It wouldn't do to send him over before Greg got to fuck him.

Slowly, gently, he teased in another finger. Scissoring and stretching. Like Sherlock really was a virgin. He added generous amounts of lubricant, and pushed against that tense little knot of nerve endings every time it seemed like Sherlock was starting to lose focus on the proceedings.

The taller man's cock looked painfully hard—an angry red at the tip. Shiny. _Leaking_.

"Do you want to come, darling?" Greg asked in a honeyed voice. "Are you desperate yet? All you have to do is say so. I'm feeling quite accommodating at the moment."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a strangled little whine as Greg nudged against his prostate. Greg slipped in the third finger, and set up a steadier rhythm. Dragging against the intended target with every motion.

The taller man didn't bother not to thrash around. To buck back against Greg's hand, trying to get _more_. It sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Greg unzipped his trousers with one hand, keeping up the motions of his fingers inside Sherlock. The detective looked down at the noise of the belt buckle clattering as Greg pulled out his cock and began to languidly stroke himself.

"Do you want _this_?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "It'd feel so good inside you. I bet it'd be more than enough to send you over the edge. I'd let you come. I'd love to feel you spasm around me… but you have to ask for it."

Sherlock blinked twice. Bit down on his lip. "_Please_." It was a soft, strangled whisper.

"What was that?"

"Please fuck me. I… I can't take this any more."

Greg grinned triumphantly and slowly withdrew his fingers. He slicked a bit more lube on his cock and slid easily between Sherlock's legs. He supported himself on one arm as he positioned himself with the other.

It was a slow burn. And he maintained a vicious eye contact as he slid into Sherlock's hole. The younger man was quite slick. Well prepared. He let out an unabashed moan as the head of Greg's cock nudged against the right place.

He wasn't all the way in yet. But he began to fuck Sherlock in shallow, unhurried motions. The younger man rolled his hips, trying to draw Greg in further. The DI obliged.

"Ugh," Sherlock panted.

He wrapped his long legs around Greg's waist, almost on instinct. Too far gone. Greg didn't mind. Sherlock was quite lovely like this.

The DI set up a more insistent rhythm. Finally starting to give Sherlock what he needed. The _noises_ Sherlock let out. Loud. Unabashed. Pornographic. Greg dimly wondered if the neighbors could hear. Perhaps part of him hoped they could. Hoped they knew he was balls deep inside the world's best shag.

"_Greg_," Sherlock moaned.

The younger man was shaking. Trembling. Greg lowered his body slightly. Changing the angle. Allowing Sherlock's cock to rub against his stomach on every thrust. That seemed to be what he needed. What he was asking for.

"I'm going to… oh god… I'm…. ah," Sherlock whimpered.

"It's ok. Come for me."

Sherlock shuddered. And his internal muscles clenched around Greg's prick. Wonderful. Deliriously wonderful. Greg fucked the younger man all the way through his orgasm. Speeding up, taking what he needed. It wasn't long before he stilled and emptied himself into Sherlock's body. Surfing on a ridiculous wave of throbbing pleasure.

They hadn't talked about not using a condom. Greg hadn't even though about the fact that he didn't put one on. He was just so caught in the moment... But Sherlock was clean. And Greg was clean. And the younger man gasped at the feeling. The warm stickiness, pulsing inside him. Greg stayed there. Sheathed for perhaps a minute before he slowly withdrew and watched with interest as his come began to dribble back out of Sherlock's body.

He reached up and undid the straps on the handcuffs. Sherlock let his arms drop down to his sides, and he attempted to catch his breath. Greg unbuttoned his shirt. It was already a lost cause, sticky with Sherlock's release, so he used to to clean both of them up a bit before undressing the rest of the way and laying down next to Sherlock.

Silence settled in. Greg waited for Sherlock to get up. And when he didn't, he wondered if he should extend the offer. He was just about to open his mouth when Sherlock turned to look at him.

"I know it's all right for me to stay, you haven't kicked me out the last two times," he let a small smirk spread across his face.

"Yeah well..." Greg didn't know what else to say. Honestly, sometimes he wondered if Sherlock was actually a mind reader.

"Go get me a glass of water."

"Yes, your majesty," Greg rolled his eyes. But he fetched the water.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face. Then walked back to the bedroom, turned off the light, and climbed under the duvet. Sherlock pressed up against him in the dark. It was almost domestic. Dangerously so. Greg could feel his heart beating in his throat.

Sherlock kissed him. Closed mouth. Almost innocent. The he rolled over. It seemed he liked to sleep with his back against Greg's chest. With Greg's arms wrapped around him. Because his breathing slowed within a few minutes. He stopped shifting around. Went slack and pliant, radiating body heat.

_Don't get used to this._ Greg told himself over and over. And then, when he got tired of that, he just savored the perfectness of moment, and slowly let himself drift away into sleep.

* * *

_Yep. This is why I should probably stop writing drunk, at four o'clock in the morning. I stop having any kind of filter whatsoever. But you people are the best sort of enablers. And I love you to death._

_See you next Saturday :)_


	15. Like a River Flows

_I think, that by this point, you've probably realized that this story is just my kink exploration playground. I have no remorse. And so far, you people have been delightfully un-squickable. But that being said, this chapter is an homage to** Desperation and Water Sports**. Yes. Piss. There's lots of it here. If that sounds gross to you, don't worry about it. You can safely read down to the page break for happy fluff times and skip the rest. But otherwise, buckle up for the wonderfully filthy ride!_

* * *

Sometimes Greg wouldn't see Sherlock for weeks. No phone calls. No texts. Absolutely nothing. Then he'd come home to find Sherlock perched on his couch, chain smoking. Whenever he showed up, Sherlock had fallen into the habit of staying the night. Sometimes he'd stay at Greg's apartment for a few days. Other times he'd be gone in the morning before Greg woke up. Almost like Sherlock was living there, but only part-time.

Whenever Sherlock disappeared, he came back with puckered little bumps in the squishy pocket of his elbow. Still using. Not quite a junkie. He'd cut down considerably in the time that Greg had known him. The drugs were only a "once in a while" endeavor, it seemed. Sherlock only relapsed when there were no _interesting_ cases on, and Greg was otherwise occupied. Too busy to tie Sherlock down. Hurt him. Force the man out of his own head for a little while.

Sure, he worried about Sherlock's health. He worried that the thin, pale man didn't eat enough. Didn't sleep enough. Seemed to have a perverse attraction towards all things dangerous.

But usually he kept his mouth shut. Sherlock wasn't the type that wanted saving. After dealing with too many addicts over the course of his life, he knew better. You'll never be able to help anybody that doesn't want to be saved.

And then, one day, Greg went by Sherlock's flat looking for him… to find it completely empty.

For a moment, Greg panicked. Worried that something horrible had happened. And the twist in his stomach was frantic. Sick. Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled out his mobile and pressed the call button.

"Hello?" Sherlock drawled, somewhat petulantly.

"Sherlock…" Greg breathed a sigh of relief, "you're… I'm at your flat. Did you move?"

There was a long silence. "I suppose that would be one way of phrasing it."

"What? Did you get evicted?"

Another pause.

"Sherlock?"

"My financial circumstances changed abruptly. I had to relocate."

The pieces started to fall together in Greg's head. He knew Sherlock didn't pay for his own flat. Perhaps the family had cut him off? Greg had never met any of Sherlock's relatives. But he knew about an older brother. One that was apparently fond of giving these sorts of ultimatums. _Get clean, or no more money for you_.

"Oh… well… right then," Greg said awkwardly. Realizing he was quite showing his hand. He shouldn't have reacted so viscerally. After all, people moved. It wasn't a strange occurrence.

"It's nothing to concern yourself with," he could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, "I'm not out on the streets or something."

Silence held.

"Was there something you wanted, Lestrade?"

"Um, no, I guess."

"I'm hanging up then."

Greg held his quiet phone for about thirty seconds before he realized that Sherlock had actually hung up on him. He got a text about three hours later, just when he was sitting down to dinner.

**You don't have to worry about me - SH**

**I know.**

**Will you stop it, then? - SH**

**No.**

**Leave your door unlocked unless you want me to break in again - SH**

Greg smiled. He never knew what the right answer was. But perhaps he'd guessed it right. At least this time. That, or Sherlock would come over no matter what he said. Either way was fine with him.

* * *

It started with Sherlock squirming. Well no. Greg supposed it started with Sherlock accepting a beer when Greg offered it—which almost never happened. Then Sherlock drank two cups of tea. And a large glass of water.

It would have registered, if Greg weren't so painfully used to Sherlock doing bizarre things. For all Greg knew, the detective had forgotten to drink anything all day, and had only just realized he was thirsty.

The squirming came perhaps an hour after all the liquid consumption. They were still in the _watching telly and pretending that we're normal people_ part of the evening. He never knew why Sherlock allowed him this. To just sit in silence, without making condescending remarks about Greg's poor choice in entertainment material.

But the squirming was distracting.

Greg felt the vibrations of it on the cushions. Saw it in the corner of his eye. When he finally chanced a look, he saw that Sherlock was pressing his thighs together. His whole body was tense. He leaned forward slightly, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other.

Wait.

That was a familiar motion. That was what Greg's daughter used to do when she was very small—and still figuring out the concept of using the toilet when the pressure in her bladder became uncomfortable.

It looked like Sherlock needed to take a piss.

Greg didn't understand. The toilet was less than four meters away. There was nothing stopping him from getting up and going.

Except, perhaps, the erection straining quite obviously against the front of Sherlock's tight trousers.

Greg allowed himself a minute or two to contemplate the situation. He'd heard of this sort of thing, but he didn't know much about it. Intellectually, he understood that some people derived an odd sort of pleasure from being absolutely _desperate_ and denying themselves up until the very last minute.

Come to think of it, Sherlock almost never excused himself to use the toilet. Was he in the habit of waiting until he couldn't stand it? It seemed like the sort of thing Greg would notice. Or that Sherlock would have brought up before. After all, Sherlock was never shy about springing new kinks on him.

Perhaps Sherlock simply didn't indulge in this one all that often?

Greg's thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock let out a soft noise. Almost a moan—but choked off and breathy. He looked at Greg, then he slid a hand down to squeeze his own cock. He bit his lip and grunted.

"Something wrong, pet?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Sir, I… I really need to relive myself."

"Well," Greg smiled, "perhaps you shouldn't have guzzled down so much tea. It would be rude of you not to sit here and finish watching this program with me."

The way Sherlock looked at him, the way his eyes widened and his mouth fell open, Greg knew he'd figured out how this particular game worked. If Sherlock had wanted to go to the toilet, he would have gone. The only possible reason for him to sit there and squirm, was because he wanted Greg to help him along in his flirting with the edge.

The idea of Sherlock pissing all over the couch was less than appealing. But then again, he could always make him clean it up afterwards.

Sherlock squeezed his own cock again, cupping it, holding onto it. Not stroking. It seemed more like he was making an effort to hold it all in. Or perhaps to distract himself from the mounting discomfort that was undoubtedly throbbing through him.

Greg reached up and wrapped his fingers around the back of Sherlock's neck. He applied a firm, but gentle pressure. Sherlock stilled.

"You're distracting me from the program, whore," Greg said evenly. "Stay still."

Sherlock made another small noise. But he stayed almost completely immobile. His breaths grew ragged.

"Sir," he said quietly, "I… I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to last."

"Oh really?" Greg said with detached interest. "You're going to wet yourself, like a child?"

Sherlock whimpered and nodded.

Greg let out a long suffering sigh, but he stood up and pulled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock winced and doubled over. Obviously unprepared for the added pain of standing. Greg waited patiently until Sherlock was able to waddle towards the bathroom.

The DI followed. Sherlock didn't bother to close the door behind him. He didn't even get near the toilet before Greg pinned him against the wall. Sherlock grunted. He looked almost shocked. Greg kept a small distance between them.

Yes. This would do. Tile floor, easy clean up. Greg had never been particularly squeamish about bodily fluids. And if Sherlock wanted this, he could give it to him.

"Sir," the younger man gasped, wincing slightly.

"Go on," Greg half raised an eyebrow. "Piss yourself like the filthy little slut you are."

Sherlock shuddered. His cheeks began to flush. Like he was embarrassed. He gazed longingly towards the toilet. So close. But so far. He didn't struggle. Probably didn't have the energy for it just then.

Greg waited. Surprised at how intriguing this game was. He didn't think he would enjoy it. But he did like it when Sherlock gave him this sort of power. Perhaps that was the aspect of it that had his cock half hard.

"I…" Sherlock whispered, "I don't know if I can."

"Of course you can. We just have to stand here long enough. Then you're going to completely lose control."

Sherlock shut his eyes tight. He moaned, through Greg couldn't really tell if it was a sound of pain or pleasure. Sherlock obviously had to go quite badly.

"I've never…" Sherlock panted, "god. Not when someone was watching."

Greg wondered if Sherlock was telling the truth or not. He supposed it didn't really matter. "So you've done this by yourself? Drank too much water, then waited. Tried to hold out until you just couldn't take it anymore? Have you ever messed your clothes before?"

"Yes," Sherlock squeaked.

"In your own flat?"

"I… I was doing an experiment in the kitchen… and I didn't realize… I didn't make it to the toilet. I pissed myself in the living room."

"Liar," Greg breathed. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You did it on purpose. Because you like feeling _desperate_ and I bet you loved pissing in your trousers. Did you touch yourself afterwards?"

Sherlock nodded meekly.

"Well, then, whore, we're going to wait here for as long as it takes. And afterwards, I'm going to pull down your wet clothes just enough to fuck you. And then you're going to wear your shame for the rest of the night."

"Oh _god."_

That, apparently, was just what Sherlock needed to go over the edge. There was a sharp intake of breath. And Greg saw it. The dark spot on the front of Sherlock's trousers. It spread rapidly. Down Sherlock's inner thighs. The younger man made several near pornographic noises. Soon they were standing in a puddle of Sherlock's urine. Greg found he was a lot less put off by it than he thought he would be.

Or maybe it was that Sherlock dropped to his knees the second he finished, pulled Greg's cock out and began to suck it like he was starving. Greg rested his hand gently on Sherlock's head. Not forcing him to take more. Simply reassuring him.

"Such a good boy," Greg murmured. "Just look at you. So dirty."

Sherlock moaned around Greg's cock. And damn. He wasn't going to last very long like this at all. He pulled back. Sherlock stayed on his knees, looking up at him. He looked thoroughly debauched. Filthy in every sense of the word.

Yes. Greg could do this. No problem.

"Stay," he said firmly.

Then he walked out of the bathroom, back towards his bedroom. He grabbed the lubricant from the bedside table and returned. Sherlock was exactly where Greg had left him. Kneeling in the puddle.

Greg pushed Sherlock forward, so that he was on all fours and reached underneath him to unbuckled his belt and unzip his trousers. Sherlock was still painfully hard. Greg gave the younger man's cock a small squeeze before he carefully pulled down his trousers, just enough to expose that delicious arse of his.

The DI kneeled behind Sherlock, slicked a finger, and slowly circled Sherlock's arsehole. Not pushing inside just yet. Just flirting with the idea of it.

"Please, sir," Sherlock all but squeaked.

"What's that?"

"Please fuck me. I need to feel your cock inside me."

_Jesus_.

How was Greg supposed to say no to that? How was _anybody_ ever supposed to say no to that?

He pressed his finger into Sherlock's entrance slowly and carefully. He took his time adding another. Sherlock bucked back against his motions. Trying to get more. But Greg liked to draw this part out. Make him really ache for it. Wait until he was a moaning, writhing mess.

Sherlock didn't seem to need very much to get to that point. He was already quite on edge. So it wasn't long before Greg slicked his cock and positioned it. He grasped Sherlock's hip with one hand, and slowly slid inside.

God.

The heat. He didn't understand how it got more fantastic every time they did this. It didn't make sense. But he never wanted it to stop.

He established a slow, steady rhythm that seemed to drive Sherlock completely up the wall. He made noises Greg had never heard before. Almost like he was crying.

"_Oh fuck_," Sherlock whimpered.

"You like this don't you?" Greg picked up his pace a bit. "Being fucked in a puddle of piss. You're disgusting."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed.

Greg slapped his arse. His motions became more brutal. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to rather love it.

"What other twisted little fantasies do you have, slut? Tell me."

"Sometimes when I masturbate, I go in the shower, and I turn the warm water on just a trickle... and I imagine it's you pissing on my face."

Wow. Greg digested that for a moment. His rhythm stuttered sightly, but he found it again without much trouble.

"Why imagine? You should have just asked," Greg grunted.

"Really?"

"Anything for my little come whore."

Sherlock moaned. He was trembling. It didn't seem like he could take a whole lot more. Greg was right there with him. Surfing dangerously close to the edge.

"Go on, slut," he grunted, "finish your mess. Come on the floor. Perhaps I'll make you lick it up afterwards."

The younger man tensed. His muscles squeezed down deliciously, milking Greg for all he was worth. He let go. Letting the pleasure course through him as he emptied himself into Sherlock arse.

He pulled out slowly. He decided he'd kept true enough to his heat of the moment promise without actually making Sherlock wear his messy clothes all night. So he helped the younger man strip. He pushed Sherlock towards the shower to rinse off and mopped up the mess as best he could with a few towels. Tomorrow was laundry day anyway. He threw Sherlock's dirty clothes in the hamper, along with the towels and joined him in the shower.

They rinsed quickly. Sherlock didn't seem to be in the mood to talk. They dried off and made their way towards the bedroom. Greg laid down and gathered the younger man into his arms. He'd begun to drift off to sleep before Sherlock spoke.

"I wasn't lying."

"Hmm?" Greg blinked.

"I've really never done that in front of another person before."

"Oh." Greg really wasn't sure how to process that particular information.

"I didn't think you'd actually take it that far. You're wonderfully indulgent, do you know that?" Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"Yeah... well... you're a bit hard to resist," Greg sighed.

Sherlock shifted against him slightly. Pressing into him just a little bit more. He didn't say anything else. Greg simply appreciated the silence. The warmth of Sherlock's body against him. It was perfect. Too perfect. It wouldn't last. But Greg fully intended to savor every moment of it.

* * *

_Yep. More drunk writing. For you, my lovely friends._

_See you next Saturday! :D_


	16. Fishnet Stockings

_Fair warning: one day, I will run out of kinks to write about. Today is not that day. Prepare for cross-dressing and feels!_

* * *

Sherlock's new flat wasn't anywhere near as nice as the old one. Greg could tell from the outside. The building was taller, but everything looked small and cramped. The lift was old and creaky. The shag carpeting was worn down and stained.

Still, he dutifully arrived at 628 and knocked. He was a bit early. But he figured it probably wouldn't matter.

"Hold on," Sherlock called from behind the door.

Greg stood for about five minutes before he knocked again.

"I'm not ready yet! I told you what time to get here!" Sherlock's voice sounded farther away and slightly peevish.

_Not ready yet_.

Greg's mind instantly began to race. What was Sherlock doing? What did he have planned? Should he be bracing for something frightening?

The minutes trickled by. Greg shifted back and forth from one foot the other. A small mousy woman, probably another tenant, walked past him. She raised an eyebrow and he smiled, giving a half shrug. She walked just a little bit faster, hurriedly shoving the key into the door of her lock.

Maybe this was one of Sherlock's experiments. To see exactly how long Greg would wait in the hall for him.

"Come on Sherlock," the DI groaned, "how long are you going to make me stand here?"

There was no reply. But perhaps a minute or two later, the doorknob turned. The door opened slowly.

It took Greg a moment to process what he saw.

Still Sherlock. But… dressed in… women's clothes? Greg's brain quite nearly overheated. His mouth dropped open slightly.

Knee-high black stiletto boots. Fishnet stockings. Short skirt—red plaid with black lace draped over it. And then. God. And then he had on a leather corset. He'd obviously had it padded, but it almost looked like he had breasts. To top it all off, Sherlock had on a waxy, bright red lipstick and a startling amount of eyeliner.

"Well don't just stand there," Sherlock rolled his eyes. He grabbed a hold of Greg's wrist and tugged him through the door.

Sherlock shut the door and folded his arms. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards slightly. "You like it." Not a question. Statement. Greg wasn't about to argue.

"Um… yeah… god… could you turn around?" The DI asked uncertainly.

Sherlock looked entirely too smug. But he complied, turning around slowly, so that Greg could see the tightly cinched lacing of the corset. Appreciate the way it forced Sherlock's body into a decidedly more feminine shape. If Greg didn't know better, if he hadn't seen how utterly thin Sherlock was naked—he'd be fooled into thinking the bastard had curves.

And fuck. That skirt. It barely covered him. Greg could almost see the hints of what might lie underneath.

He couldn't help himself. He didn't even think about it. He just reached out and gently brushed his fingers along the bottom of the lace skirt, lifting it slightly, to see black silk lingerie…

Sherlock turned abruptly and slapped his hand away, grinning.

Well, that was certainly a new game. Greg ruffled slightly. He'd gotten used to being in control. Being able to take whatever he wanted. It was jarring to suddenly have that rug pulled out from underneath him.

What was he supposed to do here?

Sherlock waved his hand vaguely towards the couch. "Sit down."

Then the younger man disappeared into what was presumably the bedroom. Greg shrugged and sank down onto the couch. The springs creaked slightly.

The flat was small. Smaller than Greg's. The living room barely fit the couch and a television. Sherlock's bookshelves were crammed in all the other available wall space.

There were only two doors to other rooms. The one Sherlock had disappeared into, and one that probably led to a bathroom. The kitchen and the living room weren't really separated. From the looks of it, he only had a microwave and a refrigerator anyway.

_Great. More excuses for him not to eat._ Greg sighed internally.

Sherlock re-emerged carrying a thin, wicked looking riding crop. Greg's heart beat a little bit faster. He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of Sherlock hitting _him_. Causing somebody pain was a delicate issue of trust. He barely trusted himself with Sherlock. He definitely didn't trust the volatile young man with handling a heady power rush in a decent manner.

Thankfully, Sherlock held out the handle of the riding crop, for Greg to grasp. The DI breathed out a sigh of relief.

Sherlock sank to his knees in front of Greg and shuffled forward.

"I'm sorry for making you wait outside, Sir," he lowered his eyes demurely. "I only wanted to make sure that I'd look nice for you."

Ah. It all clicked into place. Sherlock was behaving badly on purpose so they'd have a pretext for some punishment.

Greg ran the leather tongue of the crop along Sherlock's jaw line, using it to tilt his chin upward slightly.

"You do look very pretty, pet," he smiled, "but it was rude of you to leave me outside the door for so long. You should have invited me in and finished dressing in your bedroom."

Sherlock nodded meekly, sliding his cherry-red lips together, as if he weren't used to the feeling of the lipstick. Greg absently wondered how often Sherlock had dressed like this before. He'd obviously had practice. He was quite good.

"I'm afraid I'll have to whip you, darling," Greg said gently. "On your feet, now."

Sherlock stood slowly, gracefully. How did anybody manage to be graceful in heels that tall? Greg slowly ran the crop up underneath Sherlock's skirt, lifting it slightly, then stroking back down his thigh. Hmm.

A rather wonderful idea struck him.

"You're quite lovely walking in those shoes, slut," he smiled, "but let's see how good your balance really is. Bend over and grasp your ankles."

Sherlock's breath caught slightly, but he obeyed. He bent at the waist, and folded himself forward, wrapping his fingers around his leather-clad ankles. It was quite a beautiful image. Almost artful.

Bent over that far, Sherlock's skirt did nothing to cover him. Greg saw the black silk pants. The way they clung to Sherlock's form oh so enticingly. The lace edging was almost too much. Even crisscrossed by the fishnet stockings… god. _Focus._

Greg rose and took a step forward, running his hand along the curve of Sherlock's arse. He slipped a finger under the elastic band of the stockings and gently tugged them downward, until they rested around the tops of Sherlock's thighs. He repeated the motion with the silk pants—pulling them down just enough to they exposed most of Sherlock's arse.

He grabbed a handful of the soft skin and squeezed.

Then he drew back, walking in a slow circle around his little masterpiece. Sherlock stayed nearly motionless. Hardly breathing. That angle was probably difficult to keep with a corset on. Greg would have felt guilty. Except it was clear how badly Sherlock wanted this.

He reached under the young man and cupped his erection.

"What a naughty whore," he sighed, "you're not supposed to be enjoying this. It's not punishment if you're having fun."

Sherlock shuddered slightly.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered, "I can't help it. It's just… you _excite_ me."

Well that went straight to Greg's cock. Made it throb. It felt like all of his blood had rushed to the surface of his skin. It made him feel drunk. Elated. It shouldn't be possible to feel this aroused. It wasn't decent.

He took one step back. A few deep breaths. Then the riding crop sang through the air and made harsh contact with Sherlock's arse. The younger man jolted forward slightly, but he quickly regained his balance. Greg smiled, watching the red line slowly fill in across his pale skin.

"Tell me why you dressed up like this, pet," Greg said softly. "Did you do it for me? Or was it for you?"

"Both, sir," Sherlock whispered breathily.

"Do you want to be my naughty little girl?"

"Yes."

Greg snapped the riding crop against Sherlock's skin again, aiming for the exact same place. He fell pretty close to the mark. Sherlock nearly overbalanced, but he managed to right himself.

"Well darling, I'll take care of you, if you take care of me. You're going to look so lovely bouncing up and down on my cock."

"Please, sir," Sherlock nearly moaned, "I've already stretched myself. I've gotten ready for you."

"Is that so?"

Greg brushed a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks and traced around his fluttering hole. It did feel slick. He pressed inside slowly. Sherlock's body accepted his finger without protest. He added another. Sherlock let out a small whine when Greg nudged against his prostate.

"Such an eager girl," he bit his lip. "I bet you can't wait for me to fill you. I bet you're just aching with anticipation."

He withdrew his fingers slowly. Sherlock made a small noise of protest. Then Greg laid three sharp strikes with the cop and caught hold of Sherlock's hip to keep him from falling over.

Greg gave the younger man a moment to steady himself. He reached underneath him once again, and grasped Sherlock's prick through the fine silky fabric of the lingerie. He squeezed lightly. Sherlock made a small, choked sound.

"Does it feel nice?" Greg murmured.

Sherlock nodded emphatically.

"I bet it makes you feel dirty, doesn't it? To be so nicely dressed and so exposed at the same time."

Greg began to languidly trail his hand over Sherlock's erection. Not giving him nearly enough stimulation. Teasing terribly. He gave him another two strokes with the riding crop before he let it fall to the floor. He slid two fingers back inside Sherlock. He set up a slow rhythm. Stroking his cock, and fucking him with his fingers. Sherlock couldn't seem to decide what to do. Occasionally he'd push back, impaling himself further. Then other times he'd tilt forward, trying to get more contact on his prick.

"You're such a filthy young lady," Greg inserted another finger. "I don't think I've ever met somebody that needed to be fucked, filled, and used as badly as you do."

Greg leaned into Sherlock's hip slightly, letting him feel the heat of his erection through the fabric of his trousers.

"Your hole is so greedy," Greg nudged against Sherlock's prostate, lingering on the tense little bundle of nerves. "It's like you were made to have my cock inside you."

"Yes, sir," he gasped, "I need it."

Greg withdrew his fingers and slapped Sherlock's arse. "Stand up," he growled.

Sherlock stood. He we so much taller than Greg with heels on. Somehow, it didn't really effect the power dynamic. Greg still felt completely in control. He grabbed the waistband of the pants and pulled them back up, covering Sherlock's arse once again.

"Best get my cock wet before I fuck you," he smiled. Then he sat back on the couch, spread his legs apart, and waited.

Sherlock dropped to his knees almost instantly. He unbuckled Greg's belt, pulled down the zip and had his cock out with a practiced efficiency. He wrapped his waxy red lips around Greg's prick and began to bob up and down on him. God. From this angle, with the lipstick and the eyeliner, the longish, wayward curls… Sherlock could have been a woman. A damn pretty one too. With that delicate bone structure and those wide blue eyes—he was nothing short of beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

The lipstick rubbed off on Greg's cock. The DI found he didn't mind in the slightest. Before long he tugged on Sherlock's curls, pulling him upwards. Sherlock shoved his stockings down below his knees, and then climbed up onto the couch, straddling Greg.

"I think we should leave your pants on, don't you?" Greg smiled, allowing his hands to roam over Sherlock's body. The contrasting textures of his clothing. Smooth leather. Rough lace. Then finally silk.

"Whatever you'd like, sir," Sherlock answered softly.

Greg pulled the lingerie off to the side, enough to allow him entrance, and tugged Sherlock forward until he was situated right above Greg's prick. Sherlock smiled and he slowly sank down.

He took his time. Greg didn't rush him. He occasionally stroked the younger man's cock through the silky fabric. It was pulled tight. Probably a real interesting sort of stimulation.

Eventually, Sherlock seated himself fully on Greg's cock. The DI leaned forward, to capture the younger man's mouth in a languid kiss. Their tongues danced together eagerly for a moment, before Sherlock began to move, rolling his hips, fucking himself slowly on Greg's prick.

Greg let his hands rest on Sherlock's cinched waist. The skirt was in the way. Covering Sherlock's cock. Hiding the penetration. If Greg simply looked, and didn't think, he could almost imagine he was sliding into an incredibly tight, hot, virgin pussy.

"Such a good girl," he whispered, running a hand up the length of Sherlock's back. Over the lacing, onto the bare skin of his shoulders. "You're so warm and slick for me. You feel so good."

Sherlock stared back at him with wide eyes. Pupils dark, a nearly unreadable expression on his face.

"Do you like having me inside you? Claiming you?"

The younger man leaned forward slightly, whispered past Greg's ear, "yes. I _love_ it."

Greg wasn't sure what it was about that response that caught him off guard. Was it the way Sherlock said it? The word love on his lips? To be fair, it was hard to think clearly when fucking such a perfectly sinful creature. Still, Greg's hips jerked upwards of their own accord. He began to match Sherlock's motions.

"God," Greg breathed, "you're perfect."

Sherlock kissed him.

It was like completing an electrical circuit. A strange jolt coursed through Greg's entire body. Sherlock moaned into his mouth and began moving faster. He seemed to have found the angle he liked. Greg did his best to keep steady. Keep from falling apart. Keep from coming before Sherlock could get off.

But it was so bloody difficult.

He reached down and started stroking Sherlock's cock again. The younger man shuddered.

"_Oh_," he gasped. "_Greg."_

Shit. Fuck. Damn it all to hell. It felt like Greg's heart was going to explode out of his chest. The rush of affection he felt threatened to drown him. But in that moment, he just wanted to be with Sherlock like this forever. Make him feel good. Keep him safe. Take care of him in all the ways Sherlock would never take care of himself.

Their eyes locked together. The world went on pause. They continued in slow motion. Driving their bodies together in some vague effort to become a single entity.

Sherlock blinked. Eyes wide, almost frantic. Greg saw a single drop of moisture drop from the corner of his eye and run down his cheek. He reached up to wipe it away. Sherlock clutched at him. Arms around Greg's shoulders. Holding on for dear life.

One collective gasp.

And then the moment shattered. Sherlock groaned and clenched down around him in a wave of spasms. His cock jerked, making his silk pants sticky with come. Greg followed directly after him. Giving over to the crashing wave of pleasure that rumbled across his nerve endings, empting himself inside Sherlock.

They stayed like that, panting, spent, wrecked.

Sherlock's pressed his face into the place where Greg's neck met his shoulder. Greg wrapped his arms around the younger man, holding on to him.

"I'm not good for you," Sherlock whispered. "I'm not good for anybody."

"Hush," Greg soothed. "You're a bit of a mess, but who isn't?"

"I'm going to hurt you."

"I know."

"But I don't want to." He squeezed Greg a little bit tighter. "God, I don't want to. I can't help it. I'll say something... or I'll do something... and then you won't want me anymore and I..."

Greg kissed Sherlock's neck softly. Gently ran his fingers through the younger man's curls.

"I know you, Sherlock. I think it's fairly safe to say I've seen you at your worst. Strung out and insane. I know exactly what that sharp tongue of yours is capable of. And have you scared me off yet?"

"No," Sherlock barely breathed.

"Well there you have it," Greg shrugged simply.

Eventually, he helped Sherlock lift his hips, so he could withdraw. Greg helped unlace the corset. Then they laid down, sprawled across the couch. Greg on his back, and Sherlock on top of him.

Greg should feel panicked. Should feel something about the odd weight that had settled over the room. But he didn't. All he felt was the heat of Sherlock's skin. All he saw was how beautiful and utterly debauched the young man looked with smeared makeup and slightly swollen lips.

He'd just helped put the last nail in his own coffin.

And he didn't give a single fuck about it.

* * *

_I honestly don't know what happened. There I was, writing a perfectly porny scene, and then somehow all those emotions got in there. Ah well. These things happen._

_I'll see you next Saturday, darling smut friends :)_


	17. Collar and Leash

_Fair warning: I had an awful day, so I decided to write something sickeningly fluffy to make myself feel better. Also, sorry this is going up so much later than usual. But alas. They keep changing the schedule at work and I got called in for a morning shift unexpectedly. But it's still Saturday! And there is still smut (but mostly fluff, because sometimes I write fluff too, damn it). Enjoy._

* * *

When Greg started occasionally finding Sherlock waiting in the bed instead of on the couch, he hardly batted an eye at it. Sometimes Sherlock would be fully clothed, sitting on top of the duvet, chain smoking and ashing into one of Greg's best mugs. Other times he'd be completely nude and quite impatient.

Greg's favorite scenario by far was to find Sherlock touching himself. That had only happened once or twice, but my, it had been glorious.

The DI unlocked his door and stepped into the flat, shrugging out of his coat. The place smelled like cigarettes. A sure sign that Sherlock had come round. Nobody on the couch. Nobody in the kitchen. Greg made his way to the bedroom, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

Sometimes he still wondered how exactly this had happened. Why Sherlock had chosen _him_ of all people. Perhaps he wasn't the only one Sherlock was having an affair with. He didn't know. He didn't ask.

He'd like to think that maybe what they had was special. But he also didn't really want to delude himself. One day, Sherlock would get bored. It was inevitable as things like sunrise and the change of seasons.

Sherlock lay, sprawled across the mattress, in nothing but his pants. His eyes were closed, but they fluttered open when Greg stepped into the room and a floorboard creaked.

"You're late," Sherlock scoffed.

"Wasn't aware we'd arranged for me to be home at a certain time," Greg snorted. He lingered for a moment, appreciating the bizarre, striking beauty that was a mostly naked Sherlock Holmes. All fine, sharp lines and pale skin. More like a sculpture than an actual, breathing person.

Sherlock let out a sigh and closed his eyes again. "Usually you're back by eighteen-hundred."

"We just closed up the Henly murders. Big case. Lots of paperwork," Greg shrugged. "Didn't know you'd be here."

The younger man simply grunted in reply. Greg couldn't help but smile slightly. He walked the long way around and toed off his shoes before sitting down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Sherlock rolled towards him lazily, resting his cheek on Greg's thigh.

"Why are you still wearing clothes?" He mumbled.

"Because it looks like you're more ready for a nap than a shag." The DI reached down and slowly began carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Why can't I do both at the same time?"

Greg rolled his eyes. He sometimes got the urge to tell Sherlock he should see a doctor about his insomnia. Even when they passed out together, Greg usually awoke a few hours later to find Sherlock in process of climbing off the mattress, to go smoke a cigarette. It seemed he never got more than a solid four hours at a time.

"Lestrade," Sherlock grunted.

"What?"

"The least you could do is lie down. You're a better pillow when you're horizontal."

Greg chuckled. But he slid down and sprawled out. Sherlock crowded against him, draping an arm and a leg across him.

"When was the last time you slept, Sherlock?" Greg asked softly as he traced his fingers across the skin on the other man's back.

"What day is it?"

"Thursday?"

"I think I had a nap on Tuesday evening."

"Go to sleep."

"Is that an order?"

"Yes."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "You really don't mind me just coming over here to rest?"

"Of course not."

"It's… my flat is too silent." Sherlock said vaguely. "My thoughts all crowd in around me the second I close my eyes."

"Well, it's ok. You can stop thinking for a while. I've got you."

Sherlock huffed. But his breathing slowed. He dozed off within a few minutes. Greg didn't really mind. It was peaceful. Quite relaxing after a long, hard day.

It felt nice, to have Sherlock's dead weight sprawled across him. Comfortable. Safe. He wondered, if maybe that's what Sherlock meant, but didn't know it. There was a strange sort of security in cuddling up with another person. An odd moment of mutual vulnerability. An odd moment of mutual shelter.

"You can sleep here any time you like," he murmured, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't hear. "For as long as you like."

And privately, perhaps Greg hoped Sherlock might fall into a rut of routine… and they could stay like this forever.

* * *

Greg's forty-fourth birthday party wasn't supposed to be much. Just him, his mates from Uni, and few boys from the Yard getting properly knackered. No fancy dinner. Nothing special. Just free pints at his favorite Pub.

He'd invited Sherlock. More as a gesture than anything. He didn't really expect him to come. After all, a night out drinking didn't exactly seem like it would be his type of thing. And he'd probably hate all of Greg's friends.

How would he even introduce a man like Sherlock Holmes? Colleague? Friend? Lover? He was bound to get it wrong. It probably wasn't the best idea to let on that he was in some sort of romantic entanglement with a man thirteen years his junior, anyway. Bad if the Yarders found out—because even though Sherlock wasn't on salary, he'd still probably get in trouble for mixing work and carnality. Bad if his Uni Friends found out because… as far as anybody knew, Greg was a straight arrow.

Nah. Probably better that Sherlock hadn't shown up.

Though Greg had gotten deep enough in the pints that he did feel slightly rejected. A bit lonely. He was glad to see his friends. Glad to be out. But he still found part of himself wondering whether or not Sherlock might be waiting back at the flat when he stumbled home.

They all sat at a large table in the middle of the room. Laughing, joking, at the point of drunken merriment, when everybody was quite a bit friendlier—even if they'd never met each other or hadn't talked in months.

One minute the seat next to Greg was empty, because Dimmock had gotten up to buy the next round. The next it was full. Of a very tall figure. In a long black coat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in greeting, and perhaps Greg's mouth dropped open just a little.

"Sherlock…" Greg blinked.

"Happy birthday," the younger man offered flatly.

"Uh… thanks…"

Sherlock looked around the table, nodding wordlessly at the Yarders, and skimming over the unfamiliar faces. Greg shook himself a bit.

He cleared his throat, "everybody, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective. Works with us down at the Yard."

A few people offered greeting. Some held out their hands across the table and introduced themselves. Sherlock smiled, though it was faked. Greg had gotten to the point where he could tell the difference sometimes. In fact, he was rather proud of it. Mostly, the company was far too intoxicated to carry on a proper introduction. Soon the conversation delved right back into Football, where it had been. Sherlock settled back into the chair and examined his nails.

"Did you want something to drink?" Greg asked. His face felt hot. He didn't really have anything to be embarrassed about. But, well, Sherlock had never really seen him drunk before.

Sherlock shrugged, "if I must."

"Only if you want to."

Sherlock looked up at him and a tiny smirk twitched across his face. He pulled his mobile out of his coat and his thumbs flew over the keyboard. Greg's pocket vibrated a second later. He looked down at the small screen underneath the table.

**Don't worry. I'm not going to out you in front of all your friends. And I'll try not to insult them either - SH**

Greg frowned. He wasn't spectacularly great at drunk texting. In fact, usually his typing skills were the first thing to go. His texts broke down long before he started slurring his speech... but he did his best.

**Im not worrieed. Just din't think youd come.**

**My. Had a bit to drink haven't we? Would you like your birthday present now, or shall we wait a while? - SH**

**What isit?**

**That would be telling. Finish your pint, then I'll give it to you - SH**

Greg tried not to rush it. Not to seem too eager. He did manage to participate in the conversation to some degree. Sherlock sat silently, texting, or doing god knows what on his mobile. For the most part, he blended in to the background noise.

It wasn't quite as awkward as it could have been.

Greg drained his pint within about ten minutes. His pocket vibrated again.

**Men's toilet. Don't get up immediately. Wait a few minutes - SH**

And with that, he excused himself quietly. If Greg hadn't been staring he might not have even noticed Sherlock had left. Greg shifted back and forth slightly in his impatience. He ticked off exactly three minutes on his mobile before he got up and headed for the door at the back of the Pub.

He stepped through into the men's toilet. Sherlock was leaning on the counter, grinning. He produced a long, thin, box from his coat and held it out. Greg took it carefully. The parcel was wrapped in black ribbon. He resisted the urge to shake it, for a hint as to what might be inside.

"Go on," Sherlock waved his hand. "You're just aching to see what it is."

Greg snorted. But he tugged on the ribbon carefully and opened the lid of the box. He stared for a moment before he realized what he was seeing.

It was a leash. Simple. Strong, intricately braided leather. He took it out of the box and held it, appreciating the feel of it. Quite an odd birthday present. He looked up, with the question on his tongue—_why_. But he didn't need to ask. Because Sherlock had removed his scarf.

A thick leather collar sat low on his long neck, gold buckle facing forward. It was the same color as the leash.

"It's a set," Sherlock said quietly. "I figured, perhaps you could hold on to that part for me. At least… for a while."

A thousand sentences jumped to the front of Greg's mind. All probably the wrong thing to say. _Does this mean you're actually mine? Do you care about me? Can I want you in all the ways that I do? Is it finally ok?_

He gathered himself together and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock. This is… this is lovely."

Sherlock nodded. Almost looked relived. He dropped a slight tension from his shoulders. Then he took a step forward, closing the gap between them, and planted a small, closed-mouthed kiss on Greg's lips.

"You'd best get back to your party. They'll miss you," Sherlock murmured.

Greg hadn't been aware of placing his hands on Sherlock's waist. But he tugged him closer. Pulled them together. "I'm sure they could wait just a bit longer."

The DI pressed their mouths together again. This time a bit more firmly. Sherlock slid into submission so easily. Opened his mouth to let Greg's tongue swirl in. Shuddered just the right way when Greg threaded his fingers in those dark curls and tugged.

Yes. This was happening.

Greg walked Sherlock backwards carefully, steering him into the largest of the stalls. He bolted the door behind them. The younger man dropped to his knees, looking up at him with wide eyes. Greg still had the leash in his hand. He reached down and clipped it to the gold ring on the front of the collar. Sherlock's breath caught.

"So pretty," Greg smiled, cupping Sherlock's delicate jaw and tilting his head upwards.

The younger man drank in the praise. Licking his lips. He could feel the heat of Sherlock's breath through the fabric of his trousers.

"Thank you, sir… may I suck you? I've been thinking about it all evening."

"Yes," Greg groaned.

Sherlock unbuckled Greg's trousers, unbuttoned them, and pulled down the zip. He reached into Greg's pants and pulled out his cock.

The younger man flicked his tongue out, just barely lapping against the crown of Greg's prick. Greg leaned against the door, already panting. Already a mess. God.

Sherlock teased for a little while. Greg was in a fairly indulgent mood, so he endured it. The little fluttering licks, all along his shaft. Sherlock paid extra attention to the bundle of nerves on the underside of the glans. Making Greg bite back the unruly moans that wanted to jump out of his throat.

"May I touch myself, sir?" Sherlock breathed.

"As long as you put on a nice show for me."

Sherlock got his cock out and began to stroke it languidly as he slid Greg's prick all the way into his mouth. Greg had to bite down on his fist when Sherlock started moaning around him. Too much to handle. Jesus.

The younger man swallowed him all the way down, letting the tip of Greg's cock hit the back of his throat. Sherlock's muscles contracted beautifully. Greg drowned in the wonderful, wet heat.

Sherlock began to stroke himself more rapidly, focusing his motion around the head of his prick. Greg doubted there'd ever be a more beautiful sight than Sherlock Holmes getting himself off while he had a mouth full of cock.

The heat began to build. Under Greg's skin. At the core of him. He grabbed a hold of Sherlock's head and took control. Sherlock relaxed. Went slack. He let Greg fuck his mouth without so much as a hint of protest. He pressed his tongue along the underside of Greg's shaft and hollowed his cheeks. The drool ran down his chin. His eyes stayed focused on Greg's face.

"Oh _god_," Greg grunted. "Your mouth is fucking perfect. You know that?"

Sherlock hummed his response and Greg's knees nearly buckled. Building tension. The grand crescendo. Greg's nerves buzzed in anticipation. The fire writhed inside him. Almost too much to handle.

And then, release. He shuddered and emptied himself down Sherlock's throat. Pleasure blooming steady and bright through his whole body. Sherlock swallowed every drop, still stroking himself.

"On your feet," Greg grunted.

It seemed to take a minute for the order to register. But then Sherlock stood, unsteadily. Greg pressed him up against one of the stall walls and shoved his hand out of the way. He took a hold of the younger man's cock and established a steady, rapid pace. Sherlock squirmed. Panted. Greg sank his teeth into the skin on Sherlock's neck, just above the collar.

"_Sir,_" Sherlock whimpered.

"It's ok. Come for me. I want to see it."

Greg leaned back just enough to watch. Just enough so that when Sherlock gasped and began to pulse in his hand, he didn't get covered in come. The white viscous liquid dribbled across his fingers, messed the bottom of Sherlock's shirt. They stayed like that for just a moment. A perfect moment.

The DI cleaned them off with toilet tissue to some degree. Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers, and buttoned his jacket to hide the rest of the mess. They exited the stall. Greg washed his hands and unhooked the leash, folding it up and placing it in his pocket. Sherlock re-tied his scarf so that the collar was no longer visible.

Before they walked through the door, back into the pub, they caught hold of each other. One more quick kiss.

Greg couldn't remember ever having a better birthday.

* * *

_Well, my exhaustion writing isn't exactly like my drunk writing. But meh. _

_See ya'll next week :)_


	18. To Those Who Wait

_Fair warning: sorry this is late again. My work schedule is rather insane at the moment. Beyond that, we've just got some more orgasm delay and feelings! :D_

* * *

Greg sipped his tea calmly. Sunday morning. No obligations. Nothing to dread. Just a wonderful day of relaxation. Perhaps he'd catch up on some paperwork later. Sun streamed in through the window. The weather was supposed to be lovely for the entire week. Perhaps he'd go for a walk later.

"_Greg! I swear to fucking god… ugh…"_ a loud moan drifted from his open bedroom door.

He smiled.

"You still sound uppity," he called, "that's no way to talk to your betters."

"Please just make it stop!" Sherlock groaned.

"No. I think you like it. You know what to say if you want this to end."

"I'm _not_ going to apologize."

"Well, then. I'm not going to untie you."

A choked moan, and then silence. Well, silence and the dull buzzing of the vibrator Greg had shoved up Sherlock's arse. He'd turned it to the absolute lowest setting. Nowhere near enough to send Sherlock over the edge. At least not for a while.

But more than enough to tease the bastard horribly.

Really, this was more a reward than a punishment. He knew it. He couldn't really help but let the bubble of giddiness swell in his chest.

His ex had called earlier that morning while Greg was in the shower. Sherlock had answered his mobile for him.

Though he still didn't know exact details, she'd obviously been rather shocked by the sound of somebody else's voice. Sherlock had supposedly been polite. Asked if he could take a message. She'd demanded to know who he was, why he had Greg's mobile, and he'd told her—_I'm Greg's fuck toy._

He would have traded almost anything in the world for a picture of her face the moment she heard that.

She already knew Greg swung both ways. He'd told her pretty early on, and she'd agreed not to ever spread it around, for the sake of his career. Still. Must have been a bit of a surprise for her. She probably expected him to still be moping around over her.

And oh, he bet she'd be really upset if she found out Sherlock was only thirty. And gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous…

"Please, Sir!" Sherlock gasped raggedly. "I can't take it anymore."

"It's only been five minutes," Greg gulped down the rest of his tea, "I'm sure you can last a little longer."

"I need your cock inside me right now."

Well that sent the blood rushing south. But Greg resisted the urge to run back to his bedroom right away. He washed out his mug. Took his time. Strode back across the flat easily. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

Sherlock's wrists were cuffed to the bed. He was completely naked, apart from the collar around his neck—a mess of sweaty skin, writhing around on top of the duvet.

"Are you sorry yet?" Greg half raised an eyebrow.

"No," Sherlock moaned.

"Do you understand what you did wrong?"

"No."

"God, you're hopeless," Greg sighed. "Cock whores are not allowed to answer the phone on behalf of their masters."

"Fine. It won't happen again, Sir—ah—I just… please fuck me."

"If I give you what you want, what are you going to learn from this?"

"That I have a wonderful—ugh—kind, benevolent master that—ah—has the most marvelous cock in the world."

The vibrator continued to buzz. Sherlock squirmed a bit more frantically. He couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to get away from the stimulation or get _more_ of it.

Greg stepped into the room and grabbed the remote off the bedside table. He decided to have a bit more fun before he gave in. He pressed a button, and the vibrator began to increase in speed. Sherlock let out a little choked sound—eyes squeezing shut. He went still, gasping.

Then Greg hit the off button. Stopping the motion immediately.

Sherlock made a small noise that sounded an awful lot like a sob. Greg counted to thirty in his head before turning the toy back on, to the lowest setting.

"Sir, I can't—I—oh god"

"I love it when you get to the point where you can't even form sentences," Greg commented offhandedly. "It's fun to watch a genius get all scattered and disoriented."

"You're awful."

Greg turned the vibrator up again, slowly, "yes. And so are you."

He watched Sherlock's body tense. Watched him get close to the edge. Really, for a moment he debated just letting the younger man come. He liked watching. But he liked participating even more. So he turned the vibrator off again, and Sherlock grunted brokenly.

He gave another pause, to let Sherlock catch his breath.

"Now then, are you ready to behave yourself?" He asked in a honeyed, condescending tone.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock nodded meekly.

"Good. What's the lesson?"

"Don't answer your mobile."

"Exactly."

He stepped up to the edge of the bed and reached down, grasping the base of the vibrator and pulling it out slowly. Sherlock made a few, low, breathy sounds. His body clenched around the toy. It popped out, slick, and Sherlock's hole fluttered. Greg promptly replaced the toy with three of his fingers.

"Mmm, so loose and sloppy," he smiled, "what a delicious little whore. You need it badly, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. _Please._"

Greg withdrew his fingers and pulled off his t-shirt. He undid the tie of his pyjama trousers and let them fall to the ground. He kneeled on the edge of the bed and situated himself between Sherlock's thighs. The younger man wrapped his legs around Greg's waist, pulling him in closer.

The DI supported himself with one hand and positioned his cock with the other. He sank in slowly, even though Sherlock's body didn't offer a whole lot of resistance. It was a smooth glide all the way in.

He paused for a moment, when he was fully sheathed, just breathing. On a whim, he dipped down and stole a kiss. Meant to just be a small peck. But Sherlock returned it, opening his mouth. Their tongues brushed against each other lightly.

Greg rolled his hips. Starting to move slowly. Sherlock moaned into his mouth. The younger man was already so on edge. Greg doubted it would take very much to get him over. But he wanted to take his time. Savor his prize. Melt into the silky heat that was Sherlock's perfect body.

He kept his motions slow, but steady. Like a pulse of music. A heartbeat. Sherlock rocked upwards, meeting him halfway, but he didn't try to speed them up. He was slack. Surrendered. Utterly calm and quiet except for the occasional moan.

There was a strange importance in it.

The fact that such a generally sharp and prickly individual could become so soft if you caught him at the right moment. Sometimes Greg wondered about the person buried underneath all of Sherlock's haughtiness and carefully developed defense mechanisms. He wondered about the human that lived inside the façade of mechanical coldness.

Because at times like these, it was easy. When Greg thrust into the younger man gentle and almost tender—it was easy to believe that they were just two normal, every day people in love. Not a mad, crime solving virtuoso and an aging DI, clutching to each other desperately in stolen moments, wrapped up in an affair that was more like a train wreck than anything else.

Greg mouthed the side of Sherlock's neck, barely grazing his teeth across the sensitive skin and Sherlock's breath hitched.

"You're beautiful," Greg murmured.

"I'm not."

"I think you are."

"Your opinion is biased, because you're currently inside me." Sherlock shuddered underneath him as Greg angled upward slightly.

"I always think you're beautiful. In fact, I spend a lot of time wondering exactly what you're doing with an old sod like me."

"Oh hush… you're perfectly aware of how attractive you are."

"No. I think you should tell me." Greg snapped his hips. Starting to increase his pace.

"Well for one thing you have a magnificent cock," Sherlock chuckled breathlessly.

"Do go on."

"You have kind eyes… even when I'm being infuriating… and when you smile I feel…" Sherlock trailed off. Looked away.

Greg kissed his neck. Dipped down so their bodies pressed closer together. Skin sliding against skin.

"You _are_ lovely, Sherlock," he barely whispered.

Sherlock's legs squeezed around him just a bit tighter. But the younger man closed his eyes. He breathed more rapidly. Squirmed. Getting close. Greg began to thrust harder. Driving into him. Giving him what he needed.

He felt Sherlock start to tense.

"Look at me," Greg breathed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Wide with a strange emotion. Panic? Desire? Some odd mixture of both. Greg almost recognized it. Maybe it was the feeling that stirred around in his chest when he thought about the impermanence of whatever they had going on here.

He shouldn't have opened his mouth. Should have left it alone. Call it his savior complex. Call it the heat of the moment.

"You're mine. And I'll be here as long as you want me." It came out half-mumbled. Mixed up. But Sherlock seemed to latch onto it.

A small grunt. Then Sherlock clenched around him. Trembled as he rode out his release. Pulsing, sticky, smearing their stomachs with come.

He thrust frantic, rapid, seeking out all the sensation that the heat of Sherlock's body had to offer. He didn't last too much longer. He soon crashed on his own pleasure. The fire fizzled out—leaving him a tingling, tired mess.

Sherlock sought out his lips. They kissed slow. Unhurried. Each movement a lazy afterthought.

Greg withdrew when they broke apart. He un-cuffed Sherlock's wrists, and the younger man curled up beside him. They wrapped around each other. Soaking in all the things they didn't have to do the rest of the day. The expansive freedom of it.

"What do you find most attractive about me?" Sherlock mumbled into Greg's shoulder.

"Besides your mind, which is equal parts stunning and annoying… I'd say your eyes."

"You're lying. It's my arse," Sherlock snorted. "That's what everybody likes best."

"And I won't argue its superior quality," Greg laughed, "but I stand by my previous answer."

"Why?"

"Because your eyes are lovely, and expressive, and sometimes they say things that your mouth doesn't."

Sherlock fell quiet for a little while. Greg almost wondered if he'd fallen back asleep. It wouldn't be a bad thing. Any time the odd young man wanted to sleep or eat, Greg was all for it. It was his unspoken goal to try to make Sherlock's ribs stand out a little less. Try to nudge him just a little bit more in the direction of healthy.

"You don't have to be nice to me. We can still do this, either way," Sherlock said softly.

"Maybe I want to be nice to you sometimes."

Sherlock crowded a bit closer against him. "Tell me again."

"What?"

"That I'm..."

"Beautiful."

Sherlock hummed quietly, soaking it in. Greg smiled and planted a small kiss on his forehead. The entire day to themselves. He'd be perfectly happy to waste it all cuddling in bed.

* * *

_There you are friends :D_

_I'm changing posting day to Sunday. At least for next week, until I get my schedule sorted out._

_See you then!_


	19. My Finger on Your Trigger

_Fair warning: this story has been getting far too schmoopy lately. So, today, we're back to the basics. Some good old-fashioned, ridiculous kink. It's__** gunplay**__, friends. Guns being inserted into various orifices for sexual gratification. There's also some hostage play/**rape fantasy**. As always, if that doesn't sound like your idea of fun, feel free to hit the back button. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Sherlock! Where did you even get that?" Greg groaned.

Sherlock simply shrugged, toying with the sleek, Browning Hi-Power sitting in his lap. Really, if Greg knew what was good for him, he'd confiscate the damn thing. He might even give Sherlock a write up for possession of an illegal firearm. Wasn't it bad enough that Sherlock still occasionally did coke? Never in _front_ of Greg, but still. How many times had he let Sherlock break the law just because they were fucking? Really, it was immoral. It made Greg a bloody hypocrite, didn't it?

"I filed down the sight," Sherlock offered casually, running his finger along the barrel of the gun. "It's not loaded either."

"Good," Greg sighed, "that's just fantastic. Can you please put that away before I have to take it from you?"

Sherlock caught Greg's eye. They were sitting in Sherlock's dingy little flat, on opposite ends of his couch. Greg had a cold mug of tea in front of him, and had only been half-focusing on Football highlights for the past twenty minutes.

Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock lifted the gun to his mouth, parted his lips, and ran his tongue slowly along the barrel.

Greg's heart did an awkward little jump. That shouldn't be sexy. God damn it.

Sherlock slid the gun slowly into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, licking it sloppily. He started pushing the gun in and out of his perfect mouth in unhurried, languid motions.

"For fuck's sake," Greg grunted, pretending to be annoyed. He should have been annoyed. Perhaps offended. But all he felt was an inappropriate prickle of arousal.

The gun popped out of Sherlock's mouth with a slick sound. The younger man raised his eyebrows. "Do you want to play hostage?" He asked innocently.

"And what exactly does that involve?"

"Anything you'd like. You can blindfold me, and tie me up, and threaten me with the gun… we could pretend it's loaded… I could struggle."

Greg's stomach lurched oddly. How had he gotten to this point in his life? God. These things really shouldn't excite him. But what was the point in even fighting it?

"Got ropes and blindfold around here, do you?" Greg asked casually.

"Inside the box. Left side of the closet," Sherlock smiled coyly.

Greg rolled his eyes. But he stood and walked into Sherlock's bedroom. The small, wooden chest from his last apartment had apparently come along with him. It was basically in the same place. He opened the lid and saw the familiar array of dildos and leather trinkets. He pulled out a strip of dark, black cloth, and a few pieces of rope before returning to the living room.

He approached Sherlock from behind.

"Close your eyes," Greg said softly.

Sherlock obeyed, and the older man tied the black cloth over his eyes. He reached down and plucked the gun out of Sherlock's hands, before pushing him forward slightly. He set the gun aside while he grabbed both of Sherlock's wrists and pulled them behind his back, wrapping the rope around them and tying them securely.

He then pressed the muzzle of the gun against the back of Sherlock's neck.

"I've got you now, you bastard," he said in a low voice, "now tell me what you know."

"Never," Sherlock replied haughtily, "you'll have to kill me."

"Who are you working for?" Greg barked.

Sherlock stayed silent. Greg circled around the couch to stand in front of the younger man. He drew the gun back, and slapped Sherlock across the face. Not hard enough to actually make him bleed, but more than enough to smart.

The younger man gasped. Squirmed on the couch. Greg reached forward and grabbed a fist full of Sherlock's hair, tugging his head back.

Sherlock breathed heavily. Greg shoved the gun against his lips, tracing over them.

"I know you're working for one of the biggest drug dealers in town," Greg said on an impulse, "just give him up. I can make it worth your while. Put you in witness protection. Nobody would ever know."

"Fuck off," Sherlock sneered at him.

"Well, then, I can see we're going to have to do this the hard way," Greg sighed.

He manhandled Sherlock. Grabbed him and flipped him over one of the couch armrests. Stomach down, torso halfway supported, half mid-air. Legs bent slightly, sprawled along the length of the couch. Sherlock mostly complied with the movement, putting up a pretense of a struggle, but helping Greg turn him over.

"What are you going to do to me?" Sherlock asked sourly. "Fuck me into submission? Better men than you have tried."

Greg said nothing. He reached down between the couch cushions—the place the lube was last time he came over. He got lucky. The tube of KY was still there. He set the tube on the coffee table and reached around Sherlock, undoing his belt, and pulling down the zip of his trousers.

He tugged down Sherlock's slacks and his pants in one fluid motion, exposing his arse and upper thighs. Sherlock stayed mostly still. Tense.

"Don't," he breathed.

"You can stop this any time you like. Just tell me where to find your boss."

"I can't. He'll kill me."

"Well then, looks like you're _fucked_," Greg laughed.

He flicked open the tube of lubricant and squeezed some onto his hand. He trailed a finger between Sherlock's plump arse cheeks before pushing abruptly inside. Sherlock gasped as Greg nudged against his prostate.

"Oh?" Greg smiled. "Do you like that?"

"No."

"You're not a very convincing liar." Greg nudged against the same spot a few more times for emphasis. Sherlock let out a small, choked noise.

"This is unethical," Sherlock spat, "you're a Detective Inspector."

"And you're a filthy criminal. I could kill you and dump your body in a ditch. Nobody would care."

"You'd better," Sherlock said softly. "Because if my boss finds out what you did to me, he'll be coming for you."

"I'm counting on it."

Greg slid another finger inside Sherlock, pressing the gun into his back. He worked Sherlock lose slowly. Taking his time. Savoring every involuntary noise of pleasure that spilled out of the other man's mouth.

"Come now, darling," Greg said softly, "just a few words. That's all you got to say. Just the location of your headquarters. This will all be over. Hell, I might even let you get off."

"I told you to kill me. So stop wasting our time and do it."

Greg shoved a third finger into Sherlock's arse. The younger man groaned.

"Does your boss fuck you?" Greg laughed. "I'll bet he does. Sweet little body like yours… I'll bet you're one of his favorite little bitches."

Sherlock squirmed, but stayed silent.

"I'll bet you're great. It's real tempting to just slide inside you. I'd _ruin_ you."

"Old bastard like you?" Sherlock snorted. "You're more inclined to have a heart attack than make me come."

Greg raised his eyebrows a bit at that. Well, if Sherlock wanted to play dirty, he could do that.

A rare moment of inspiration struck him. He looked at the gun in his hand. Smooth. Polished. After all, the sight was filed down. Nothing to catch flesh and cause an injury. He bit back a laugh and slowly withdrew his fingers.

Sherlock braced himself, obviously getting ready for Greg's cock.

The DI slicked a lot of lube onto the pistol. He pulled Sherlock's thighs apart and kneeled between them, like he was getting ready to sink into him.

When he pressed the cold, metal barrel of the gun against Sherlock's entrance, the younger men went completely still.

"What is that?" He asked, slightly panicked.

"I think you know perfectly well what it is," Greg said in a honeyed, condescending voice.

"That's not—please don't—not the gun—"

"Hush now, pet. Struggling will only make it worse for you."

Greg pushed gently, slowly. It was a bit of a task to get the barrel of the gun in, past the first tight ring of muscle. When it popped inside, Sherlock gasped. Greg couldn't quite tell whether it was a noise of pain or pleasure.

Sherlock had a safeword. If he truly didn't want this, he would have said.

Still, Greg paused a moment, to allow him some time to adjust before pressing forward. He found it oddly mesmerizing—watching the gun slide into Sherlock's body. The cold, dark metal was a sharp contrast to Sherlock's soft skin.

"Oh _fuck_," Sherlock said in a shaky voice.

His entire body trembled. Greg reached a hand underneath him. Sherlock's cock was rock hard, the tip of it slightly wet. Greg gave him a slow stroke before letting go. He began to fuck Sherlock with the gun. Shallow, steady motions, angling to graze across his prostate.

The scene quickly went to hell. Sherlock moaned and panted. He almost sobbed with every motion.

"Yes, god—I—_ugh_."

Sherlock pushed back against the gun, swallowing up a bit more of it. Greg's breath caught. He'd never seen something so bizarrely enticing. Sherlock stretched around a firearm… the image carried a heady sort of danger. Greg felt oddly out of control and supremely powerful in the same breath.

It seemed that the feeling was almost too much for Sherlock to handle. He was fairly vocal anyway... but with every slide of the gun, he nearly screamed. Greg almost worried the neighbors might hear and call the police. That would be an awkward explanation.

But of course, he wasn't going to stop.

"_Greg,"_ Sherlock gasped, "I don't want to come with it inside me. I'm so close. Fuck me."

"That didn't sound like a polite request," Greg said evenly, keeping up the steady motion of the gun.

"I need your cock, Sir. Please. Please fuck me. I can't stand it."

Greg pulled the gun out slowly before pushing it back in as far as it would go. Sherlock let out a little broken noise. He shuddered. Each breath he took sounded strained.

It was tantalizing to watch. But Greg decided to take pity on the poor boy. He pulled the gun out again and tossed it aside. He lined his cock up and sank into Sherlock, holding himself up so he didn't put too much pressure on Sherlock's arms—which were still tied behind his back.

He established a fast, near punishing rhythm. Really, properly, _fucking_ Sherlock's brains out. The younger man was already so slick and loose. He barely moved. Just stayed limp underneath Greg—making guttural sounds.

"That's right," Greg panted. "You're mine."

"Yours," Sherlock echoed on a long moan.

"You love my cock inside you."

"_Yes_."

"Are you going to come for me?"

"Oh… I… uuuuh…"

Greg slammed into him. Deep. Brutal. Sherlock gasped. Squirmed. He made a little high-pitched whine. And the he tensed. Jerked. Clenched around Greg's prick. Beautiful, wonderful, rhythmic contractions. Greg continued to hammer into him. Relishing the sloppy heat.

He toppled over the edge before long. Fighting to hold himself upright while he emptied himself into Sherlock's arse.

He pulled out after a few moments, watching his come dribble back out... down Sherlock's cleft.

The DI sat back on his heels and untied the knots around Sherlock's wrists. Then he went for the blindfold before slumping back into a seated position. Sherlock rolled over and slid down the couch until his head was against the armrest and his legs sprawled over the tops of Greg's thighs.

"All right?" Greg asked softly.

"Glorious," Sherlock murmured.

They sat in companionable silence for a long while—the television flickering dully in the background. Greg ran his hand over the skin of Sherlock's thigh. Cheeky bastard hadn't even pulled his trousers back up. Eventually Sherlock reached down and interlaced their fingers.

It wasn't quite domestic bliss. At least, not in any conventional sense. But Greg still felt oddly calm. Sated. Content.

* * *

_Damn it. It still got all fluffy at the end. I can't help it. These two just... ugh. I want them to be sickeningly happy. _

_Sorry these postings have been at such odd times. Still trying to get them sorted out._

_But we'll shoot for next sunday again!_

_xoxo_


	20. Falling Apart, Falling Together

_Fair warning: I slipped... and accidentally... the angst. God. I need to stop writing after drinking binges. My emotions just go everywhere. Is it weird that writing feelings and fluff makes me more self-conscious than smut? That probably says something about me as a person. Ah well. I'll warn you for **discussion of self-harm and mentions of suicide**. Sherlock is not actually suicidal. It just gets brought up. Other than that... I don't even know. It's fine. There's smut. Everything will be sunshine and rainbows._

* * *

Really, Greg didn't mean to do it. He'd told himself over and over again, that no matter what happened in the privacy of their own flats, he had to keep things professional with Sherlock when there was a case on. Even if Sherlock behaved in an utterly bratty and annoying manner—Greg wouldn't treat him any differently than before.

But dear _god_.

Sherlock was obviously high. Twitching, making rapid, jerky movements. Shouting a lot more than normal. He'd chewed Anderson out thoroughly, made two family members of the deceased cry, and had scared away every single member of the forensic staff. They were all standing in a huddle at the top of the stairs, throwing dark looks at Sherlock and muttering.

Sherlock paced around the body, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

If the case weren't so strange, Greg wouldn't have called. But it appeared that the man had drowned in the middle of the living room. His lungs were full of water. But the rest of him was bone dry.

Sherlock shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one between his lips and pulled out a lighter.

"Sherlock! You can't smoke in here, this is a crime scene!"

"Technically there is a body here, but I doubt this is where the crime was committed," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The man's got freezer burn on his fingertips."

"Put. It. Away," Greg growled.

And yeah, he noticed the way Sherlock stood up a little bit straighter. The way he lowered his head slightly and didn't make direct eye contact. All tiny cues of submission. But the cigarette was still in his hands.

"Sherlock," Greg said in a low voice, "I'm counting to three. If that cigarette is not out of my sight by the time I'm finished, there are going to be serious consequences."

Sherlock's tongue flicked out and ran along his lower lip. He didn't move.

"One…" Greg paused. No sign of motion. He continued. "Two…"

Sherlock slipped the cigarette back into the pack and pocketed it. He raised his other hand to rub at the back of his neck. His scarf slipped down a centimeter or two and Greg saw a flash of leather.

So he was wearing the collar.

Good.

"Now then," Greg took a step towards him. Not close enough to touch, but enough to talk quietly—so that the people on the staircase wouldn't hear them. "You're being an awful little bitch today. And I know you're on something. So you're going to tell me about what happened here, then I'm going to cuff you, and lock you up in my cruiser until you calm down. Questions?"

"No, Sir," Sherlock barely whispered.

"You said the body had freezer burns," Greg prompted, "explain why."

"He didn't drown. He suffocated on snow. Or ice. Something that would melt slowly enough to actually keep him from breathing. It's possible they kept packing it in. There will probably be some trauma in his throat. They were keeping him in some sort of refrigeration unit—since it's obviously not quite cold enough to snow outside. Judging from the tattoo on his ankle, he's in organized crime. He didn't die quickly. He's an example. There might be more."

"Good boy," Greg nodded. "Is that all?"

"The wife is hiding something behind the portrait on the mantelpiece. She couldn't look anywhere else. There's probably a safe. Check it before she has the chance to clean it out. The combination will probably be a family birthday."

Greg slipped out his handcuffs, and nudged Sherlock towards the exit. He waited until they were down the stairs and out of sight before he shoved Sherlock against the wall and snapped the cuffs around his wrists. The younger man gasped and shuddered.

He led Sherlock out on to the street, handling him a bit roughly. Nobody saw Greg shove him into the back of the cruiser. Just as well. He didn't feel like making up an explanation just then.

He closed the door and went back to the crime scene. He ended up having to stay for about another hour while they collected evidence and took photographs. Anderson was in quite the foul mood, grumbling about "that _freak_" under his breath. Greg shot him a few warning looks before he stopped. They checked behind the portrait on the mantlepiece, and sure enough, there was a safe. The combination was the birthday of the second child. There were several envelopes, full of various documents and financial records that looked a lot like a money laundering operation.

When all was said done, Greg found Sherlock had fallen asleep in the cruiser, leaning against the window. The glass had fogged up with his breath. He awoke when Greg started the car and began to drive, but he didn't say anything.

Greg drove them back to the Yard. He unlocked the handcuffs, but Sherlock still followed him placidly up to his office. Greg shut the door and closed the blinds. He let Sherlock sit in the corner and stare off into space.

He would have allowed Sherlock to leave if he felt so inclined, but he seemed perfectly content to smoke cigarettes out the window and send off about a million texts.

"You know, you're not technically supposed to be smoking in _here_ either," Greg said offhandedly after Sherlock lit his third cigarette.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

Greg decided not to force the issue again. He got a surprising amount of work done, with just the occasional glance in the younger man's direction. He'd come down off whatever he took. It was apparent in his slumped posture. The dark circles under his eyes. The way he seemed to be trying to fold himself into a tiny ball. His feet were up on the chair, arms wrapped around his legs, thighs pressing against his stomach in a sort of upright fetal position.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Greg didn't look up. He continued to write and just let the question hang in the air.

Sherlock didn't respond for a few minutes. Then he let out a long sigh. "My brother came to visit me this morning. He threatened to put me in rehab again."

"So you decided to retaliate by going on a little binge, did you?" Greg tried to keep his voice light. But it was a rather serious situation. He probably shouldn't be enabling Sherlock's drug use. Then again, there probably wasn't a lot he could do to stop it.

"I suppose so," Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't take that much. Just the rest of what I had stashed around my flat… Are you angry?"

"I feel like disappointed might be a better word. It's been a while since you showed up to work high."

Sherlock chewed that over for a little while. Greg continued filling out his report, albeit a bit more distracted.

"So you're not going to try to fix me," Sherlock said flatly.

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Well there you have it," Greg shrugged.

"But everyone always tries," Sherlock snapped. "Everyone wants to make me _better_. You want me to stop doing drugs. Admit it."

"Perhaps I do." Greg said carefully. "But I know I can't make you do anything you don't want to do. My father was an alcoholic. I learned the hard way that it's better to let a person _ask_ for help than to force it on them. All I'm going to say is keep it separate. If you show up at a crime scene high again, I'm going to write you up. They might even take you to court over it. I won't stop them."

Sherlock shifted in his chair. Fidgeting. Perhaps he was looking for a fight. Looking for something to be angry about so he could feel vindicated in further self-destruction. Greg knew that reflex well. He wasn't going to participate.

"You're pathetic. If we weren't fucking, you'd have thrown me in jail a long time ago. Or is it even that? Could you solve a case without me anymore?"

That stung. It was a childish little jab. No real force behind it. But Greg finally glanced up from his paperwork.

Sherlock looked so oddly fragile. Wrapped up in that big coat and scarf of his—all that cloth was just armor covering his used up body. His humanity. Greg set down his pen and looked at him calmly.

"I understand that you're looking for an emotional reaction. But I don't want to fight with you right now. And I don't think you really want to fight with me either. You're upset about your brother trying to control you and you're lashing out at anyone you can reach."

The younger man bit his lip and looked out the window. He lit another cigarette. Silence resumed. Eventually the smoky smell faded. Greg sensed the motion more than he saw it.

Sherlock sat down on the floor next to Greg's chair and rested his head against the DI's thigh. It felt natural, automatic, for slowly card his fingers through Sherlock's curls.

"I just feel like I've been on the verge of falling apart my entire life and I never quite do it," Sherlock whispered. "Is that a bad thing to want? Complete, and total destruction?"

"I don't know… you're not talking about killing yourself, are you?"

"No. I just want to—I just want to _fail_. I want to ruin everything. I want to do _badly_. To fuck up royally just to see what happens. I just want to chip away at my mind until it's broken beyond repair, and I don't have to be like this anymore."

The words settled somewhere deep in Greg's chest, tugging at his heart. What it must be like—to have a brain that set you so far apart from the rest of humanity. He wondered about Sherlock's childhood. How many lofty expectations he had set down on him because of his intelligence. He wondered if Sherlock had always been lonely. Distant. Isolated.

Greg slid down off his chair slowly, so he was next to Sherlock on the floor. He drew the younger man into a loose embrace.

"Well, even if you do fall apart completely, I'll put you back together. Or at least, I'll try my best," he sighed.

"Why?" Sherlock said in an odd, thick voice. Was he on the verge of tears?

"Mad as it is, I might be in love with you."

"You shouldn't say that," Sherlock made a little choked noise.

"It's the truth."

"But you won't—you'll stop—it won't last."

"Shhh," Greg soothed.

He wasn't sure how long they stayed there. The sky got slowly darker. Eventually he had to get up, because his back started to hurt. He packed up all his files and Sherlock followed him out of the office. Into a cab. Back to Greg's flat.

The second they made it through the door, Sherlock reached for him. Pulled Greg in by the lapels of his coat and kissed him hungrily. It felt desperate. Like maybe Sherlock was just trying to hang on to reality.

But Greg couldn't help himself. He kissed back, wrapping his arms around the younger man—trying to gentle the rough edges of the kiss. Quell the fire slightly until they relaxed back into a more steady place.

Sherlock trembled against him. Pressing every part of their bodies together. Maybe, Greg should have said no. Maybe he should have realized that they were both a bit too raw.

Then again, maybe a simple, carnal act was the best way to weather the storm together.

They stumbled towards the bedroom, refusing to let go of each other. Somehow they both managed to get rid of their coats and shoes along the way. They unbuttoned each other's shirts clumsily. Fell back onto the bed together. Sherlock wriggled out of his trousers and pants. Greg barely got his off as well before Sherlock pressed up against him again. Clung to him.

Greg slipped a hand between them and wrapped it around Sherlock's prick. The younger man panted into Greg's mouth. Feverish. Animalistic. Greg stroked him in sure, steady motions.

"Let me take care of you," Greg murmured in between kisses.

He slowly migrated to suck on Sherlock's neck, just above the thick leather collar. Then he bit below it, on the shoulder. Then Greg slid down the bed, turning Sherlock onto his back, and pinning his hips to the mattress.

"_Oh_," Sherlock gasped, "_yes_."

It struck Greg as odd for a moment that they'd never gotten around to this. He almost felt like a selfish lover. Sherlock had sucked him off god knows how many times, and he'd always been too preoccupied with other things to return the favor.

Well—he'd just have to make up for that now, wouldn't he?

Greg flicked his tongue out and licked a stripe from the base of Sherlock's cock to the tip of it. The younger man's breath went ragged. He squirmed, just a bit. Greg pressed down on his hipbones a bit more firmly, to keep him from moving and parted his lips. He took the head of Sherlock's prick into his mouth, paying special attention to the area on the underside of the glans. The younger man moaned.

Yes. This was good. It felt right, just then.

In the old days, back at Uni, Greg was quite the expert cock sucker. He knew all the party tricks. He could even pull off the occasional deep-throat. But he was severely out of practice. So he took it slow.

He moved one hand to wrap it around the base of Sherlock's cock, and began to take a bit more of him in. Sherlock was by no means small. Greg knew he wasn't going to be able to take the whole thing. But he managed to get about half of Sherlock's prick into his mouth before he started to gag.

He set up a moderate rhythm, stroking Sherlock in time with his motions. Judging by the noises Sherlock made, he didn't do an entirely terrible job. One of Sherlock's hands rested on Greg's head. Not pushing him down. Just encouraging him.

Greg pressed his tongue up along the shaft to add some friction. Took Sherlock in a few times so that the tip of his cock hit the back of Greg's throat. The younger man let out a long moan.

"Oh fuck—Greg—I can't…"

Greg just kept on. Bobbing up and down on Sherlock's cock. He didn't swallow. Let his drool run down his chin. He felt a bit sloppy. But it didn't matter.

Sherlock started to tense underneath him. Breaths growing more frantic.

"_Ugh_. I'm going to—"

That was Greg's queue to pull away if he wanted to. He let it pass without a second though. Sherlock groaned, then he began to pulse all across Greg's tongue. The taste was a lot like he remembered. Bitter. A bit musky. Really, it was the texture that got him more than anything else. But he swallowed what he could and let the rest spill where it may.

He pulled back slightly and wiped his mouth off on his arm. Sherlock looked utterly wrecked. Eyes closed, hair frizzy, pale skin flushed in the afterglow. Greg suppressed a chuckle flopped back onto the bed.

His erection still throbbed, crying out for attention. But he could wait. He lay there while Sherlock came back to himself. The younger man seemed to blink out of his sex daze like you'd wake up from a dream. He smiled, rolled over onto his side.

"What do you want?" He asked breathlessly, "I'll do anything."

"I don't care," Greg sighed. "Just something… sooner, rather than later…."

Sherlock grinned and slid down, wrapping those perfect lips around Greg's cock. God. His mouth. Greg would never get over it. Not _ever_. He made the whole thing seem utterly effortless.

Warm, wet tongue, swirling everywhere, slick lips sliding against the sensitive skin. Sherlock put Greg's skills to shame. He knew it. He couldn't be arsed to care at that particular moment. Because Sherlock swallowed him down, and the contractions of his throat were fucking beautiful.

He didn't try to last very long. The slide of Sherlock's mouth pushed him closer and closer to the edge and he followed willingly. The pleasure buzzed through him, building like a nervous sort of anticipation. The lurch at the top of a rollercoaster before the long way down.

_"Fuck_," he grunted.

He crashed. Burned up. Emptied himself down Sherlock's throat, and maybe went a bit loopy on the endorphin high. It took a few moments before he remembered how to use his lungs. The aftershocks jolted through him, slowly bringing him back down.

Sherlock crawled back up the bed and sprawled out lazily. For a moment, it seemed like maybe everything would be all right. Like maybe they weren't both doomed to a horrible train wreck at the end of whatever this was.

Maybe it didn't have to end.

"You hungry?" Greg asked groggily. "I could make some pasta or something."

Sherlock yawned. "Let's order take-away. I want curry."

"All right. I'll get up in a minute."

Sherlock rolled sideways until he was halfway draped over Greg—a long arm and a leg stretched across the DI's torso.

"I…" Sherlock started and then trailed off.

"That's ok. You don't have to say anything."

Sherlock pressed his face and mumbled something incomprehensible into Greg's shoulder.

"What was that?" Greg chuckled.

Sherlock raised his head slightly. "You're not a complete moron, you're a damn good shag, and I don't do emotions any further than that."

"Uh huh," Greg raised his eyebrows.

"However if I were to, you know, feel things… well you're one of the few people on earth I would miss if you died."

Greg snorted. Some declaration of love. But he still smiled. Coming from Sherlock, that was probably as good as at least twenty mushy romantic sonnets.

* * *

_Eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk. Feeeelllliiinnnnngggsss. I'm going to go eat Nutella out of the jar and watch Monty Python's flying circus._

_Until next week._

_x__oxo_


	21. Take Two

_Fair waring: feelings? What are those? Plot gets in the way of porn. I've been drinking Bacardi and coffee all afternoon. So this is pure smut. Here. Have some sex toys and double penetration. _

* * *

"Oh fuck," Sherlock groaned.

The younger man's ankles were cuffed to the legs of Greg's kitchen table. His hands weren't tied, but he'd been holding on to the edges of the table top as instructed. He was sprawled completely, naked skin pressed against the polished wood, arse in the air—stretched around a twenty centimeter long flesh colored-dildo.

Greg smiled and pushed the plastic cock in a bit deeper. They'd been at this for a good half an hour. Sherlock had brought his toy box over. Greg had started with the smallest dildo he could find and they'd slowly worked their way up.

Sherlock trembled. Every breath he took sounded a bit shaky.

Greg fucked Sherlock slowly, moving the dildo in and out—more than a bit mesmerized by the way the younger man's body accepted the intrusion without much hesitance. They'd never really tested Sherlock's limits this way.

Or at least, Greg hadn't personally. Sherlock owned dildos that were almost comically large, so obviously he could take them.

Greg doubted he'd be brave, or patient enough to work their way up to the biggest one in the box. But it was still fun to see how far they could go.

"Are you ready for the next one?" The DI asked in the calmest voice he could manage.

Sherlock grunted. Close enough to a yes.

Greg withdrew the current dildo slowly and rooted around in the box for the next size up. On an impulse, he selected a sleek black one, that wasn't necessarily longer, but more than a few shades wider.

He slid three fingers into Sherlock, mostly because he couldn't resist. His hole was slick. Almost sloppy with the amount of lube Greg had used. Greg lingered in the wonderful silky heat for a minute, gently scissoring is fingers. Sherlock was already loose. He could take a cock so easily.

God. Greg wanted to drop his trousers and fuck Sherlock senseless. He wouldn't have to be gentle. Not at this stage.

But he took a few deep breaths. Steadied himself. He withdrew his fingers and nudged the tip of the new toy at Sherlock's entrance.

He pushed it in slowly and Sherlock let out a long wail.

Yep. The neighbors definitely would have heard that. Greg shrugged it off. What did he care?

"You all right?" He asked once he got the toy about halfway in.

No response.

"Sherlock?" He tapped the younger man on the arse.

"Uh… yes… just… it's a bit hard to focus."

"Are you in pain?"

"Not exactly."

Greg drew the dildo out a bit, and shoved it further in. Steady, shallow motions. He had Sherlock moaning and panting in no time at all.

The younger man let go of his grip on the table and Greg stopped abruptly. He didn't even have to give the order. Sherlock grasped the edges of the wood again after a few moments.

Greg held the dildo in place with one hand and stared circling the rim of Sherlock's stretched hole with the other. Just his index finger. Sherlock made a low, guttural sound, but gave no protest. Gently, carefully, Greg nudged his finger inside Sherlock, along with the dildo. Sherlock gasped. That was all.

It was a tight fit. Greg squirmed his finger a bit and the younger man shuddered.

"God," Greg said breathlessly, "do you think you could take two cocks?"

"Do you really want the answer to that question?"

"What? You've done it before?"

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, "but it's been a while."

Greg probably should have had some sort of reaction to such an admission—at least, a reaction other than arousal. But he found it difficult to think clearly when Sherlock was naked. Much less when they'd been building up to a wild session of fucking.

He started moving the dildo while he kept his finger still. Sherlock pushed back as much as he could—still chained to the table.

"Want to try it?" Sherlock panted.

"What?" Greg shook himself.

"I don't think I could do it with this one. But I could probably take your cock and one of the smaller ones."

A pang of heat raced underneath Greg's skin. "Really?"

"If it's too much, I'll tell you."

Greg bit his lip. He didn't want to hurt Sherlock. It would be easy to get carried away in the moment. But… _god_. When else was he going to do something like this?

He'd just have to go very,_ very_ slowly.

Greg carefully withdrew the dildo and set it aside. He picked up one of the ones they'd used earlier. Much slimmer, and shorter. Only about twelve centimeters long, and perhaps as wide as two knuckles. He unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out. Even though Sherlock was already a slick mess—Greg lubed up a bit more. Just to be safe.

He positioned himself, holding the dildo on top of his cock. The nervous anticipation skittered thorough him. He pressed up against Sherlock's hole, but didn't push in just yet. He stayed still for a few moments, to let Sherlock prepare for the intrusion.

Then he began with a gentle pressure. Just nudging against Sherlock's entrance. The younger man took a few long, deep breaths, and pushed back slightly. Nothing happened.

Greg pushed forward a bit more insistently. Ready to stop if Sherlock said so. But then Sherlock's body gave.

The tip of Greg's cock slid inside him, along with the dildo. He stopped. Waited. Sherlock gripped the table so hard his knuckles turned white. He went completely still—didn't even breathe. Greg slowly ran a hand down the other man's back, in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

"All right?" He asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stop?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Can you talk?"

"_Ugh,_" he groaned.

Greg waited, even though it was difficult. He wanted to shove forward, fuck Sherlock hard and fast. But he didn't move until Sherlock's breathing reached a realm closer to normal. Until he relaxed a bit.

He slid forward just a bit before pausing again. He waited until Sherlock rocked his hips back, in a wordless request for more. They went on in a torturously slow fashion until both Greg and the dildo were almost completely seated inside Sherlock's wonderful arse.

"How's it feel?" Greg asked in a slightly strained voice.

"Just… _move_."

Greg grasped the base of his cock, along with the dildo, and rolled his hips. Sherlock made a small choked sound.

"Does it hurt?"

"If you ask me one more question, we're done with this. I'm fine just—god—just fuck me."

Well, Greg wasn't one to argue with somebody while his cock was inside them. So he began to thrust at a measured, careful pace. It was an odd sensation—Sherlock's muscles trying to clutch around him as well as the piece of plastic. He wanted some sort of verbal reassurance that Sherlock was, in fact, all right.

All he got were a series of low, rumbling moans. Almost a continuous sound. Sherlock writhed on the table top. Pushing back against Greg's cock, and rutting against the polished wood in a fluid stream of motion.

Greg didn't dare pick up speed. For one thing, the dildo was difficult to keep a firm hold on. He'd slicked it up with so much lube, his grip kept slipping. For another, Greg was a bit nervous about actually breaking Sherlock. As much as they liked to flirt with the edge, he didn't want to be responsible for any permanent damage.

Their languid pace didn't seem to matter so much. Sherlock's volume steadily increased until he was almost shouting. Greg watched as the long, lean lines of the younger man's body began to tense.

"Oh god," Sherlock barely gritted the words out, "oh _fuck."_

Greg felt the first spasm. Sherlock cried out, shuddering as his body clenched around the intrusion. The DI stopped moving. The spikes of pleasure shot through him as Sherlock came. Just watching it, _feeling_ it pushed Greg right up to the edge as well. But he didn't quite go over.

"Pull out," Sherlock murmured. "Can't take it anymore."

Greg obeyed wordlessly, withdrawing along with the dildo. He couldn't help but stare at Sherlock's stretched out, slick hole. It fluttered. Clenching and relaxing.

The DI's erection still throbbed. He began to stroke himself, just drinking in the sight of Sherlock's fantastic body. He was already fairly close. It wouldn't take very much.

He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's arse and spread his cheeks apart. He lined the head of his cock right up against Sherlock's hole, but didn't push inside again. He stroked himself rapidly.

"I'm still going to come inside you." Greg fisted his cock just a bit faster. Sherlock angled his hips upward ever so slightly.

"Do it. I want it."

Greg felt the heat build inside him. The roiling tension. He surrendered to it. Crested on the wave and let it wash through him. The pleasure pulsed across his frayed nerve endings as he emptied himself into Sherlock's slick hole.

He felt a bit hazy. It was almost difficult to stay standing for a moment. He grabbed Sherlock's hip to steady himself. The younger man seemed quite content to stay sprawled across the table, lying in a puddle of his own ejaculate.

Greg's come started to dribble back out of Sherlock's body, down his inner thigh. On an impulse, the older man trailed a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks and pushed the viscous liquid back inside him. Sherlock moaned.

"You're fucking filthy," Greg murmured reverently.

He knew Sherlock was probably sore. But he still squirmed his finger experimentally. Perhaps just to see what would happen. The younger man didn't tell him to stop.

Sherlock's arse just felt so exquisitely slick and sloppy. Greg's come mingled with the lube to reach a near perfect consistency.

When the DI withdrew his finger, some of the mixture began to escape again. This time, he resisted the urge to push it back in, and simply watched it dribble slowly out of Sherlock's abused hole.

Eventually he unlocked Sherlock's ankle cuffs and helped him into a standing position. The younger man slumped against him, like he couldn't stay up on his own. Greg wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and walked them both over to the couch, where they collapsed. Greg sitting up. Sherlock sprawled out over him.

"I think we could try a bigger one next time," Sherlock said with a perfectly placid expression.

"Are you serious?" Greg snorted.

"Why would a joke about such a thing?" Sherlock maintained a serious face for about thirty seconds before the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "I'm going to be walking bow-legged for _days_."

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"Don't apologize. It's glorious."

Greg smiled, trailing his fingers over the sticky skin on Sherlock's abdomen. In a little bit, perhaps they'd clean up and eat some dinner. Of course, the table would need a bit of cleaning too before he could eat off it again.

Greg found that he didn't mind in the slightest. They'd christened almost every piece of furniture in his flat, and it had been more than worth it every single time.

* * *

_I don't even know anymore. I've been awake since 4:30 this morning. I hate opening at work. I have no idea what's real. The only solution is to drink more and chain smoke while watching cat videos. Cat videos make everything warm-fluffy._

_These author's notes are becoming a catalogue of my slow mental breakdown._

_Ah well. See you next week darlings._

_xoxo_


	22. The Speed of Sound

_Fair warning: well, everybody was asking for __**sounding**__ last week. So that's what you got. If you don't know what that is, google it before reading, please. I'll have you know, I had to actually do research for this one. Because even I hardly knew anything about it. So sorry if I got anything wrong. I ended up in really weird parts of the internet and didn't want to stay there for too long. Here you are, you kinky bastards. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Do you want to try something new?" Sherlock pushed through the doorway, holding a small leather case.

Greg rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him. He hadn't exactly been expecting Sherlock. Then again, these days Sherlock was liable to show up at any hour of the day or night without notice. At least it wasn't that late.

Greg just had a lot of paper work he really should be doing… he'd been falling behind recently. He didn't exactly _blame_ Sherlock, for it. But it's rather difficult to fill out repetitive reports when you have an attractive sociopath in you bed—whining for a good fuck.

"I dunno," the DI shrugged, "depends what it is."

Sherlock smiled and strode over to the kitchen table. He laid out the small leather case and unzipped it. Greg walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder.

The case was padded, and filled with a variety of different sized metal bars. Some were quite thin, perhaps the width of a piece of spaghetti, while others were much larger. Maybe close in circumference to a thumb.

The pieces of metal weren't perfectly straight. They curved slightly at either end. They were polished smooth, glinting slightly under the bright kitchen lights.

"What are those?" Greg rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder.

"A set of medical sounds."

"I see… and what exactly do you do with them?"

"Urethral dilation," Sherlock bit his lip slightly.

"Come again?"

"Think it over for a moment. I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Greg's brow furrowed slightly. He certainly knew the words. Perhaps he just didn't want to think about what they meant together.

"You mean… you want to me to stick those things in your prick?"

"No. You don't know what you're doing." Sherlock turned his head lazily to kiss Greg's cheek. "I thought perhaps I could do it you… a practical demonstration, if you will. You could try it on me later."

Greg stared down at the sounds with a new fear and awe. Sure, back in his university days, he'd done quite a bit of object insertion. But never in that particular orifice. In fact, he'd lived most of his life under the impression that it was a spectacularly bad idea to ever try sticking something up your piss hole. It seemed like an awful lot could go wrong in a lot of serious ways.

"I don't know… isn't that dangerous?" He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and leaned into him a bit more. The casual physical contact probably wasn't helping his rational thought process.

"Not if you go slowly. I've had quite a bit of experience as well. You'd be in good hands."

"Dilated a lot of urethras in your day, have you?" Greg snorted

"Spend enough time in London's leather scene, and you get experience in all sorts of interesting areas," Sherlock smiled coyly.

"Jesus," Greg groaned. "I don't even want to know."

"Probably not… it was just an idea. We don't have to. I'll put them away." Sherlock reached forward to close the case, but Greg caught his hand.

"Well hold on a minute," he sighed. "Does it hurt?"

"The sensation is a bit of a shock at first. Perhaps a bit uncomfortable. But after that, it's quite pleasurable."

Greg took another moment to pretend to think about it. Perhaps just for his own dignity. Because he wanted to believe he wouldn't simply say _yes_ to anything and everything Sherlock asked for.

But if one looked at things objectively, that's exactly what Greg did. Today wasn't shaping up to be any different.

"You'll stop if I tell you to, the _second_ I tell you to, clear?" Greg put a bit of weight into his voice, to try to regain some semblance of control over the situation.

"Yes, Sir. Of course."

Sherlock turned around and pulled Greg into a soft little kiss. Gentle. It would have been sweet, if not for what they were about to do.

"Why don't you go lie down on the bed," Sherlock murmured against Greg's mouth.

Phrased as a suggestion. Not an order. Manipulative little bastard.

But Greg still stole one more kiss, then made his way to the bedroom. He kicked off his shoes, unzipped his trousers, and stripped down to his pants. He lay back on the mattress and tried to take slow, even breaths. Tried not to worry about the impending lunacy.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway before too long. He'd taken off his jacket and shoes, but otherwise remained fully dressed.

"Do you think you can keep still, or should I tie you down?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I'll be fine without the handcuffs, thanks," Greg said. Perhaps he snapped a bit more than he meant to.

But Sherlock smiled and approached the bed. He kneeled on the edge of the mattress and flipped the leather case over. He unzipped an outside pocket and pulled out a packet of alcohol swabs. He opened a single one and swiped the damp cloth over the head of Greg's cock. The DI jumped a bit at the cold.

He watched in vague apprehension as Sherlock put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled a small tube of lubricant out of another zipper on the case. Perhaps he should have been comforted by the meticulous cleanliness. But it gave the moment an oddly clinical air that only served to make Greg more uncomfortable.

Sherlock selected one of the smaller sounds. Not the very smallest. It was still wide enough to be mildly concerning. The taller man smeared lubricant over the head of Greg's slowly hardening prick, and coated the sound as well.

Sherlock moved, so he sat on Greg's thighs, straddling him, and effectively holding him down.

"Are you ready?" He asked mildly.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Greg tried to smile.

"We really don't have to do this…"

"No. It's fine. Go on."

Sherlock rolled the metal in his hands for a moment, perhaps trying to warm it up. Then he grasped Greg's cock gently with one hand, and began tracing the tip of the sound over the glans. He didn't slip the sound in right away. He made a few, teasing, circling motions, perhaps to acclimatize Greg to the idea of it

Mostly the DI focused on breathing. Trying to relax.

He still wasn't prepared for the feeling that resulted when Sherlock slowly inserted the sound the first few centimeters.

Greg gasped loudly.

It didn't exactly hurt—but it was still the most bizarre sensation Greg had ever experienced. Cold. A strange pressure. Stretching. It registered as _wrong_. Uncomfortable. Stop.

"Just relax," Sherlock said in a low, soothing voice. "There's nothing to worry about. I'll wait until you're ready for more."

Greg tried to focus on anything else. His entire universe had become the metal object, violating his body. He heard somebody panting. It took a few moments to register that the sound was coming from him.

"Do you want me to pull it back out?" Sherlock asked in the same calm, tone.

"God… I don't know…" Greg could barely string the words together.

"If you don't want me to stop, I'm going to let it slide in further. Is that all right?"

The DI managed a nod.

A strange guttural sound forced its way out of Greg's mouth as the metal slipped further inside him. His body didn't seem to be offering as much resistance as it should. He tried not to squirm at the sensation. The continued stretch. Almost a burn. Almost painful. Not quite.

Sherlock paused again, to let him acclimatize. It wasn't much good. He didn't think having a piece of metal inside his cock was ever going to feel less unbalancing. But he didn't exactly want to go faster, so he remained silent.

The next time, Sherlock didn't warn him. He just slid the sound in the next few centimeters. It went in quite agreeably. Greg closed his eyes and the world spun around him.

His body was confused. The signals started to cross. _Painpleasure. _Sherlock withdrew the sound just a little bit, and pressed it back in. Something strange sparked deep inside Greg. He let out an unabashed moan.

Then, Sherlock began to pull the sound back out at a steady, measured pace. It felt like coming in slow motion. A strange wave of heat washed through Greg. The tingling anticipation skittered across his nerve endings.

Sherlock selected another sound. The next size up. He slicked it liberally with lubricant. It didn't go in quite as easy as the first one had. More waiting. More odd stretching. Pressure. Greg fought to stay still. But he couldn't control the strange noises that came pouring out of his mouth.

He felt entirely helpless as the sound slid deeper and deeper into him. He wanted it out. But once again, the sensation became confused. Sherlock began to move the metal slowly, in and out. He fucked Greg's cock with the sound.

The blunt metal slid deeper and deeper into his hardening cock. The pleasure spiraled through him. The intensity of it was both terrifying and fantastic.

"_Fuck_," the DI breathed.

"Is it too much?"

"No… yes… I…" rational thought seemed like a quickly vanishing possibility. Greg simply gave over to it. Let himself drown in the chaos of it all.

Sherlock withdrew the sound and slid it all the way back in. Greg felt a bit faint. Wrung out. Something hot, wet, and imminent roiled inside him.

"I'm going to…" he trailed off.

Sherlock withdrew the sound again. It almost sent Greg reeling over the edge. Sherlock dipped down to lick a stripe up Greg's cock. The younger man wrapped his thin fingers around Greg's prick and stroked him steadily.

There wasn't much point in holding back. Greg let go. Almost passive as the tension climbed into a screeching crescendo. He toppled over the edge. Shuddered as the pleasure washed through him. He felt dazed. Not quite real.

A strange, full-body exhaustion settled through him. Like he'd just run for miles and miles and only just collapsed.

"How do you feel?" Sherlock smirked as he stripped off the latex gloves and placed the sounds back in the case.

"I… a bit wrecked," Greg managed to get out.

Sherlock reached down and unzipped his trousers, pulling out his own cock. He smeared his hand through the ejaculate on Greg's abdomen, and began to stroke himself—using Greg's come as lubricant.

The DI's mouth dropped open slightly.

He wanted to do something more than just watch. But he could hardly move. He settled for placing his hands on Sherlock's hips, occasionally dipping down into his trousers, to grab a handful of his plush arse.

Sherlock panted and squirmed, speeding up his motions. Putting on a bit of a show. Greg slid his hands further into Sherlock's trousers. He managed to sip a finger between the younger man's arse cheeks and just graze against his hole.

Sherlock made a small breathy noise.

Every motion of his hand created an obscene, slick sound. His cheeks flushed. His breathing became gradually heavier.

God he was beautiful.

"Please, Sir," he said softly.

Greg teased at Sherlock's arsehole in small, circling motions. Felt him start to quiver. Brace for impact.

"_Oh_… can I…?"

"Yes, come for me." Greg said in a raspy voice.

It didn't take very much longer. Soon Sherlock grunted, went still, and added his own come to the mess on Greg's stomach. He stayed upright, hands on Greg's chest. They stared at each other wordlessly as time became fuzzy and distant.

Eventually, Sherlock zipped up the leather case and placed it on the floor. He threw the gloves into the rubbish bin by Greg's dresser, and disappeared for a moment. He came back with a warm cloth. He cleaned Greg off. Stripped. And flopped back lazily onto the bed.

Greg still felt a bit detached form his own body. Swimming in a sea of strange neurotransmitters. But Sherlock pressed up against him. He wrapped his arms around the younger man instinctively. Part of him knew that he'd eventually have to get out of bed and finish up all the reports he'd started.

But he wanted to lay there for just a while longer.

* * *

_Well, ask and ye shall receive. God I need sleep. See you next week, darlings._

_xoxo_


	23. Playing House

_Fair warning: after last week I just wanted to write something cute and fluffy. So pretty much, we're revisiting cross-dressing. But I'd argue it's different. Because this is more just domesticity kink. Yes. That's a thing. I think. Shhh. Here's your porn._

* * *

Sherlock showed up at Greg's flat early on a Monday morning, with a rather large suitcase. Greg stared at it pointedly as he stepped aside to allow the younger man in. The DI had a thermos of coffee in one hand, and a tie draped around his neck. He'd missed the interval where he could still take the tube and get to work on time. He'd have to catch a cab.

"I got evicted again," Sherlock offered casually. "The rest of my things are in storage. I'll start looking for a new flat tomorrow."

"So you're… moving in—"

"Just for a day or two," Sherlock cut him off. "If you want, I'll even sleep on the sofa. Friends do that sort of thing, right? What's the word, couch-surfing?"

"For christsake, you don't have to sleep on the sofa," Greg rolled his eyes. "And I'd say we're a bit more than friends at this point, wouldn't you?

"Yes."

The younger man smiled and dragged his suitcase into the bedroom.

Greg took a moment to marvel at the fact that Sherlock had showed up _here_ rather than going to a hotel. It seemed to say something important. Though with Sherlock, you could never really know. After all, this was probably just a convenience thing.

He gave a small, mental shrug. Playing house for a few days might be fun, anyway. Not so very different from the normal arrangement of things. This wasn't a _step_ and Greg shouldn't make it one.

No… he should just enjoy it… _what_?

Sherlock walked back out of the bedroom wearing nothing but a sheet.

"Getting comfortable, are we?" Greg snorted.

"Most of my clothes are dirty. What day do you do laundry?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows placidly.

Greg let out a long sigh. "I suppose I could just put yours in with mine but—"

"Thank you."

Sherlock flopped down on the couch, pulling the thin sheet in around his creamy skin. He looked entirely too fuckable.

Ah well. Something to look forward to on the way home.

Greg took a long swig of coffee and finished putting on his tie. He pulled on his jacket and threw one more wistful look in Sherlock's direction.

"I have to go to work…"

"I know. Call if there's anything interesting. I promise not to set your flat on fire. Leave. You'll be late." Sherlock waved his hand absently.

Against his better judgment, Greg gave Sherlock exactly one kiss before he left. It was a slow, lingering brush of tongues. But really, what difference did a few minutes make?

Greg managed to force himself out the door before things escalated. He wasn't sure what Sherlock was going to do alone in his flat all day. He probably didn't actually want to know. But perhaps on the cab ride to work, he let himself imagine that Sherlock would spend the entire day teasing himself so that he'd be desperate for a fuck the second Greg walked in the doorway.

A man could dream, right?

* * *

The workday dragged on long and listless. Greg had a hard time focusing. There weren't any particularly _interesting_ cases. Just a few small time thieves and drug dealers. Sgt. Donovan was in a worse mood than usual. Greg didn't dare ask why, but she told him anyway.

"Stupid, idiot, rat-bastard," Sally muttered under her breath. "Could have _told_ me he was married. Never wears his goddamned wedding ring…"

"Want me to punch him for you?" Greg asked mildly as they strolled through the aisle in the evidence locker.

"I already punched him," Sgt. Donovan huffed, "fat lot of good it did me."

"Yeah well… Anderson's a prick."

"Don't you even start. I know that. How could I not? I just didn't think he was a _lying_ prick. Usually the slimy ones are at least honest."

Greg shrugged as they reached the confiscated gun lock-up. He opened the cabinet and began rooting through it. Sally continued to grumble, but for the most part, he didn't listen.

"So what about you, then?" She asked out of the blue. "You're obviously seeing someone."

"Hmm?" Greg asked absently.

"You were a wreck after your ex-wife left you. Then suddenly you weren't. Why have none of us met her?"

"Who?"

"Your girlfriend"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I bet she's real young and _pretty_," Sally sneered. "That's what all men go for after a nasty divorce. A cute little trophy fuck. But there's got to be some reason you're embarrassed to bring her around. Is she stupid? "

"Hardly," Greg snorted.

"So there _is_ someone," Sally raised her eyebrows.

"Come off it. We've got work to do."

"I'll find out. Don't think I won't. There aren't any secrets at the Yard. You should know better by now."

"It's only hard to keep secrets if your run your mouth constantly, Donovan," Greg smiled.

It probably didn't help her anger issues for the day. But she did quiet down a bit. Greg left his office at exactly 17:00 and caught a cab back home.

When he opened the door to his flat, he expected to smell the smoke that usually lingered in the air when Sherlock stayed over. Instead, however, the rather enticing aroma of sautéed vegetables washed over him.

"Sherlock?" He called tentatively.

"In the kitchen."

Greg shrugged off his coat and followed the wonderful smell.

Sherlock stood over the stove, with his back to Greg. No longer in a sheet. He'd changed. The view from behind was breathtaking.

Sherlock had on a pale green, short-sleeved, knee-length dress. The fabric looked soft, perhaps cotton, with dusky pink roses printed on it. The dress cinched in to show the younger man's slim waist, but otherwise hung fairly loose. He'd shaved. His legs were smooth. Instead of his usual dress shoes, he had on a pair of sensible black heels that only added a few centimeters to his height.

He half turned to face Greg and looked up. At first glance, it seemed like he didn't have any makeup on. But then Greg saw it a bit. The faint eyeliner, light lipstick, and hint of blush on the cheeks. The dress was slightly padded around the chest. Just a suggestion of small breasts.

With his longish dark hair and narrow face… Sherlock could have been a woman. A tall one, with very broad shoulders. But still…

"You didn't have much in the refrigerator to work with, but I went shopping for a few things and managed to put together something halfway decent." Sherlock spoke in a soft voice. Higher than normal, but not over-exaggerated.

"That's—that's fine. I didn't know you cooked," he said dumbly.

"Of course I can cook," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What? You think I eat nothing but take away? Open the wine. This should be ready in a few minutes."

Greg was more than a bit distracted. But he took his wine opener out of a drawer and screwed it into the bottle sitting on the counter. A nice Shiraz. Sherlock must have gotten it when he went shopping.

The DI poured two glasses and set the table. After that he lingered, watching Sherlock over his shoulder, while the younger man kept waving him away—_I already said there's nothing you can do to help_.

Sherlock poured the pasta through a strainer and piled it onto two plates. Then he divided the delicious-smelling sauce over it. From what Greg could see, it had onions, eggplant, zucchini, tomatoes and bell peppers cooked in plenty of olive oil.

"Ratatouille," Sherlock shrugged. "Simple enough. It's what my mother used to make when the cook when on vacation."

"Your family had a personal cook?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up and be thankful I learned a few things from him." Sherlock reached for his glass of wine and sipped it daintily.

They sat down on the table and had a leisurely dinner. The food was, of course, delicious as it smelled. Perhaps they went through the bottle of wine a bit quickly. But Sherlock had apparently bought two.

They opened the second one as Greg did the dishes. Sherlock hovered, leaning on the counter, rambling about the history of English Serial Killers. It was only when his words became slightly less crisp—that Greg realized he'd seen Sherlock high on cocaine before, but he'd never seen him drunk.

"Are you tipsy?" Greg grinned.

"Not all of us are in the habit of drinking three beers before bed, thank you very much," Sherlock replied a bit haughtily.

Greg put the last plate on the drying rack and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. They wandered into the living room. Greg put on an old Billie Holiday record before settling down next to Sherlock on the couch.

Sherlock half-draped his legs over Greg's lap and leaned into him slightly. Greg circled his arm around the younger man's waist.

"You look very nice tonight," the DI smiled as he softly ran his fingers over the other man's thigh.

"I thought you'd like it. I still have quite a few dresses from the old days."

"The old days? You're only thirty. You're not supposed to have those yet."

"Please. Age is meaningless. If we're going by life experience, I'll bet I've got quite a bit on you."

"Is that so?"

Sherlock hummed quietly in reply. He finished the wine in his glass and set it on the coffee table. "Did you know that I lived as a woman for six months?"

"No."

"Right after I graduated from college. I took some time off before university. Traveled. Mycroft got me a passport that said my name was Sharon Holmes." Sherlock nuzzled into Greg's neck.

The DI couldn't do much but smile. That was quite a thought. Sherlock wandering about Europe, dressed like this.

"So are you… well I dunno. Do you feel like a woman sometimes?"

"Gender is such a messy issue," Sherlock shrugged. "I don't see why people are so obsessed with being one thing or the other."

"Fair enough," Greg chuckled.

"I don't usually tell people about all of that," Sherlock said absently, "I might be a bit drunk."

"I certainly don't mind."

"No… you're quite the easy going man, aren't you?" Sherlock murmured. "And you're always in a good mood when things are like this—like we're a real couple. Do you want to be?"

"Pardon?"

"Do you want to be a real couple?" Sherlock hiccupped slightly.

"Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, but how is that different from what we are right now?"

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged. "I always thought I was more of your fuck toy than anything else."

"I said I _loved_ you."

"No. You said you _might_ love me—when I was about to cry, to stop me from crying. You think I'm too young for you. And you think I'll get bored and wander off. You think I'm a mess that can't make any real decisions. But that's ok… because… you still want me around most of the time… am I making any sense? I can't tell."

"Yes," Greg said softly, "but maybe we should have this conversation when you're not drunk?"

"Might be for the best," Sherlock sighed. "Do you want to have sex now, though? I'm about ready."

"Well when you put it like _that_…" Greg slid his hand up underneath Sherlock's dress to trace his fingers across the younger man's smooth skin. He'd shaved his legs all the way up. He trailed his hand upwards until he brushed across the edge of something silky. Sherlock had on a pair of women's knickers as well. The heat began to rush to the surface of Greg's skin.

He leaned in for a soft kiss. Sherlock's lips met his eagerly. The slightly spicy taste of the wine lingered in Sherlock's mouth. Greg licked at it slowly. Until they simply tasted like each other.

The DI reached back and fumbled with the zipper of the dress. It took him a few tries, but he eventually got it down. Sherlock wriggled out of the sleeves and let the dress pool around his waist. He had on a padded red lacy bra. Greg kissed him again and cupped the padded bra with one hand and squeezed. Definitely not the right texture. But the motion made Sherlock whimper into Greg's mouth.

Sherlock kicked off his heels and lifted his hips so he could get the dress the rest of the way off. His pants were the same color as the bra. They were a high-waisted affair—high enough so that Sherlock's erection didn't poke out the top, even though it was still clearly visible.

He settled into Greg's lap, straddling him, arms wrapped around the older man's shoulders. Greg took his time. Ran his hands over the other man's bare skin. Pulled him in close so that Sherlock could squirm against him in feverish impatience.

"You're so lovely," Greg whispered.

He let his hand slip down. He grabbed Sherlock's arse and squeezed before slipping his fingers under the edge of his knickers. He trailed his index finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks, not pushing in, just tracing over Sherlock's arsehole so it clenched.

"Do you want me inside you?" Greg asked in a husky voice. "Do you want my cock right there?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Please."

With his other hand, Greg reached for the side table. He pulled the drawer open. His fingers wrapped around a tube of lubricant.

The more sane parts of him probably found it funny that he'd taken to stashing lube all over the house for these spur of the moment fucks. But right then, he couldn't feel much but grateful to have it in such easy reach.

He slicked his fingers and pulled Sherlock's pants to the side. Just enough to he could tease at his hole unobstructed. He slid his finger inside slowly. Perhaps Sherlock's intoxication had something to do with it, but he pushed back eagerly for more. Greg squirmed his finger, pushed it in and withdrew it a few times before adding a second one.

Sherlock kissed him. Sloppy. Distracted. It didn't matter.

Before very long, Greg added more lube and a third finger. Sherlock moaned and panted just a bit louder than usual.

"I'm ready," he mumbled against Greg's lips. "Come on. I want it."

"Slutty little drunk, aren't you?" The DI slapped Sherlock's arse teasingly.

"Only for you."

Sherlock unbuttoned Greg's trousers and managed to get the zipper down. He reached into Greg's pants and pulled his cock out. Greg slicked himself up and tugged Sherlock forward, lining him up.

Greg kept Sherlock's knickers pulled to the side. The younger man sank slowly onto Greg's cock. He paused once he was fully seated, taking a few deep breaths. Then he rolled his hips and began to fuck himself on Greg's prick.

The DI wrapped his hands around Sherlock's waist, supporting him. Everything felt like slow motion. Like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them.

"So pretty," Greg panted.

And it was true. Sherlock's curls got a bit frizzy and wild as he started riding Greg's cock faster. His make-up started to sweat away.

He pressed up closer to Greg's torso. Greg could feel Sherlock's erection rubbing against his stomach.

"_Oh_," Sherlock breathed. Perhaps the shift forward had changed the angle for the better.

"Is that the spot?" Greg mouthed at Sherlock's neck.

"Yes… fuck… I really… I love your cock."

"I think the feeling is mutual," Greg grunted.

"I like the rest of you too—I mean—all of you…"

"You're fantastic."

"Ah—"

"And sexy."

Sherlock made a small choked noise.

"I could just fuck you forever."

"I'm going to come," Sherlock groaned.

And he did. Perhaps a minute or so later. He clenched down around Greg and shuddered against him, creating a wet spot between them. Greg held Sherlock steady and thrust up into him, following him over the edge. Giving into the crashing wave of pleasure.

Sherlock slumped against him. He pressed his face into Greg's shoulder.

"Tired now," he mumbled.

"I'm sure you are," Greg ran a hand down his back soothingly.

"Let's go to bed."

"Al right, just give me a second."

Greg managed to catch his breath. Sherlock shifted off of him and they stood. Greg kept an arm around Sherlock's waist as they made their precarious way to the bedroom. He helped the younger man out of his remaining clothes before depositing him on the mattress and letting him crawl under the duvet.

"You might have a hangover in the morning," Greg chuckled, "you should drink some water."

Sherlock grunted. But when Greg fetched two glasses of water, Sherlock gulped his down gratefully before falling into near-immediate unconsciousness.

Greg didn't fall asleep right away. But he was content to sit next to Sherlock and go over case files for the morning. Hopefully Sherlock would wake up before Greg had to go to work. He got the feeling they should probably talk about some of the things the younger man had said.

A _real couple._

Greg did rather like the sound of that. Even if he had no idea what that would look like between him and Sherlock. It would be fun to figure it out.

* * *

_Fluffy times, oh fluffy times. I don't know what I'm doing. What day is it? More coffee. Sleep is for the weak._

_Xoxo_


	24. Worth the World

_Fair warning: the feelings man. They just. I don't sleep and then the feelings happen. At any rate, for those of you who haven't read my story **Don't Forget the Cream Filling **__it is now pretty much a tie in with this fic. So feel free to go refresh your memory if you'd like. Otherwise, you know. Emotions and crap. There's kind of a lack of sex in this chapter. But we'll get back to the weird kinky stuff soon, I promise._

* * *

Greg stood outside his own door for a few moments, trying to collect himself. Sherlock had still been there when he'd left that morning—sound asleep. But Greg had tried to prepare for the worst.

He didn't want to have unrealistic expectations of Sherlock. After all, the man was a self-proclaimed sociopath, a narcissist, a snarky bastard, and a drug addict. The combination of all those things didn't bode well for stability.

Greg knew he could open his door to an empty flat. Sherlock could be gone. He could stop answering his phone for weeks until their little night of vague tenderness had blown over.

The DI let out a long breath, then he turned the key in the knob. He opened the door slowly.

Sherlock sat on the living room couch, hunched over slightly, typing away on Greg's laptop. He'd changed into one of Greg's t-shirts and a pair of boxers, presumably because most of his other clothes were dirty.

"How long were you standing out there?" Sherlock didn't look up from what he was doing.

"Few minutes, maybe," Greg shrugged. "How did you get onto my computer?"

"Your password isn't a random string of letters and numbers like it should be. I'm not the only one who would guess you used your daughter's middle name. _Elisa._ Pretty. Sentimental. But sadly, not very practical."

Greg blinked a few times at that. "How did you know my daughter's middle name?"

"You've got that school award of hers framed in your bedroom. Smart girl, is she?"

"Very."

"How nice… I'm assuming you want to talk about things I said last night. You're usually in a better mood on a full stomach. I ordered the same curry you always get from the Thai place down the street. It should be here soon."

"Oh… right then… if you're trying to put me in a good mood, do I need to brace myself for something?

"That depends on how honest you'd like me to be," Sherlock set Greg's laptop on the coffee table and looked up at him. "I could lie to you, and they'd all be very pretty lies. I'm sure they could make us both very happy. Or I could tell you some truths, until you think you've had enough. Or I could keep going, even after you don't want to hear any more. Which do you think would be best?"

"Well, I really don't know what you're talking about. So I guess I'm not in much of a position to say," Greg said carefully.

"How well do you know me, Greg?"

"Fairly well? I mean, you're a genius detective that lives ten miles above the rest of us mortals and only comes down for the occasional twisted shag?"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards slightly. "You think you love me. I think you're in love with the idea of me. There's a lot of information you're missing if you want to make an educated decision about entering a formal relationship."

"Such as?"

"Let's have dinner first," Sherlock waved his hand vaguely. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on the side table and lit one. He inhaled deeply. Greg had mostly gotten used to the smell. But he still opened a window before sitting down in his favorite armchair with a beer.

He tried to relax. But it was difficult with the unspoken words looming over his head. What could Sherlock possibly have to tell him that was weirder than, _I solve murders as a hobby, do massive amounts of cocaine when I get bored, and I'm deep enough into the leather scene to have kinks you've probably never heard of._

"Anything exciting happen today?" Sherlock asked as he exhaled a small cloud into the room.

"No particularly grisly or puzzling murders, so nothing that would interest you," Greg smiled.

"Hmm… how old is your daughter?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Sixteen."

"Ah… just started college, then?"

"Yep," Greg nodded, somewhat awkwardly.

"I graduated college when I was sixteen," Sherlock shifted on the couch slightly. "Though I still didn't make it to University until I was eighteen. Like I said, traveling … and… other things."

"You know, being really cryptic about this isn't really helping."

"I suppose it isn't. I'm sorry. I'm not really good at this type of thing. Usually I'd just say fuck it, it doesn't matter but…"

"What?"

"Well it does."

Greg digested that for a moment. Before he could form an adequate response, the doorbell rang. He went downstairs, paid the delivery boy, and brought the food back up. He fixed two plates, even though Sherlock had just ordered the one curry and nothing for himself.

He settled back down into his chair and placed the other plate on the coffee table. Sherlock ignored it, in favor of continuing whatever he was doing on the computer. Greg didn't feel particularly hungry, but he made an effort to finish at least half of what he'd put on his plate.

"All right," Sherlock sighed after Greg set his plate back down. "Come over here. I've got something to show you."

Greg moved over onto the couch and glanced down at the computer screen. Sherlock had a lot of tabs pulled up on the browser… most of which looked like porn.

"Sherlock—"

"I figured the best way to explain all of this to you would be to show you. But if you don't want to see, I understand," the younger man spoke at an even quicker pace than usual. Nearly stumbling to get the words out.

"What exactly am I looking at?"

Sherlock clicked on the first tab. A video, with a black screen. He pressed the play button.

The clip started. A thin young man, with dark curls, and bright eyes was chained to a wall. Entirely naked, with pouty lips, and a shameless erection. God. No. Wait. That was _Sherlock. _And a barely legal one at that. All skin and bones, but a slightly softer face.

Greg bit back his immediate _what the hell_ and watched passively.

A large, burly man, dressed in leather trousers walked in carrying a flogger.

"Have you thought about what you've done, slut?" The man barked.

"Yes, Sir," Sherlock's eyes dropped to the ground, "I'm very sorry."

"I don't think you are. Flirting with the post man… I think that's good for at least fifteen lashes, don't you?"

"Whatever you say, Sir," young Sherlock mumbled meekly.

God, that was a bit too familiar. Something in Greg's stomach twisted slightly. The man in the video drew the leather flogger back and brought it down against the skin of Sherlock's thigh. The young man moaned and squirmed against his bonds.

The video stopped. Sherlock's finger rested on the space bar. Greg looked over at him. The other man's cheeks were slightly pink.

Was he embarrassed?

"I trust you get the idea of that one," he said quietly.

"Yeah, I think I might… so you used to do porn?"

"Yes."

"All right," Greg nodded, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat. In the greater scheme of things, this wasn't so bad. He'd half expected Sherlock to confess he was a serial killer.

Sherlock clicked another tab. Another video. This one cut to the middle of a scene. Right into the action. Right into Sherlock sinking down on two cocks at the same time and groaning. Greg's heart skipped. His blood ran hot. He couldn't really decide between arousal and extreme discomfort.

The Sherlock in the video held still as the man behind him began to thrust slowly. The other man lay underneath him, holding Sherlock up. Supporting him. The young man's legs shook slightly. Every breath seemed labored.

"I was famous for that," Sherlock commented off-handedly, "being able to handle two cocks at once."

"I see."

"I suppose I still haven't quite lost that particular skill set. Even if I'm a bit out of practice."

Greg tried to smile.

Sherlock clicked the next tab. The clip started. Sherlock looked a bit older in this one, though not by much. The camera view came down from above. Sherlock was on his knees, surrounded by a circle of seven naked men. You couldn't see their faces—just their huge, achingly erect pricks.

Sherlock made his way around the circle. Jerking a cock with each hand while he sucked another. One of the men groaned. Sherlock pulled back, opened his mouth and closed his eyes. The man he'd been fellating began to ejaculate all over his face. Globs of come splattered across Sherlock's lips. Some landed on his cheek, and even on his eyelid.

The video paused again.

Greg felt strangely numb. Not so much angry. Because really, how could he be? Just… Sherlock looked more than a bit high in all the clips. He had to wonder about what sort of sorry circumstances had lead Sherlock down such a road.

"Have I made my point, or should I keep going?" the younger man asked, eyes fixed on the screen.

"I don't know. What is your point exactly?"

"That I'm a filthy coke whore. I've been paid for sex on numerous occasions and there's countless videos of me being fucked and humiliated floating around the internet. It's how I afforded to move out of my parent's house. It's how I supported my drug habit… I only stopped when Mycroft found out and sent my to rehab. He's paid for my flats ever since."

"Ok."

"That's it? That's all you're going to say?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well I don't know. Are you still making videos?"

Sherlock took a few shaky breaths. "There's a nice gentleman in Finland that I'll do the occasional webcam show for when I'm short on cash."

"Is that all?"

"I… I got roped into doing a shoot a few months ago because one of my old partners was in town. I didn't want to I just…" Sherlock's breath caught. He closed his mouth and stayed silent for about thirty seconds. "Do you think I'm disgusting?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"I mean, I'm not _happy_ about all this. But Jesus, Sherlock, how did you think I'd react?"

"The last guy I dated filmed us having sex without telling me about it then made a lot of money selling it to one of my old producers before he dumped me."

"Well, what's his name? I'll track him down and make his life miserable."

Sherlock let out a rather choked laugh. "_God._ What do I have to do to make you understand? I'm not good for you Greg. I'm a fucking mess. And you're… you're a really decent bloke. You should find somebody nice. Somebody that would make you happy."

"You make me happy. And I think you're selling yourself a bit short. You are a bloody genius."

"What's that good for if I'm crap at everything else? I've never even attempted a monogamous relationship before. What if I can't do it? I mean, my cheating on you is nearly inevitable. And I'd tell you about it after. Not because I'm a good person. But because you are. And I really don't want to hurt you, but I'm not sure I'd be able to stop myself."

Sherlock's hands trembled slightly. He closed Greg's laptop and looked straight ahead.

"If you need more convincing, you can just look through your browser history. I'm sure you'll find a wealth of material. I've spent most of the afternoon on this." Sherlock set the computer aside and started to stand up.

Greg caught his wrist.

Sherlock paused for a moment, then sank back onto the couch.

"I'm not sure who convinced you that you aren't worth the world," Greg said softly, "but I'd like to find that bastard and punch him in the goddamn face."

Sherlock stared at him silently.

Then he broke.

It was like watching a mask slide off somebody's face. The corners of his eyes grew wet. His lip quivered. He tried to turn away. Greg draped an arm around him and held him. Sherlock made an effort to stay quiet. Each little sob sounded choked off. Greg wasn't really certain what to do. So he just stayed there until Sherlock's breathing returned to normal. Then he kissed him on the top of the head.

Sherlock's face was wet. His eyes red. His nose slightly runny.

It didn't matter.

"Do you feel better now that you've told me?" Greg asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, leaning against him.

"I'm going to ask you not to do any more webcam shows. All right? If you need money, maybe we can work something out with the Yard. Actually pay you for some of the work you're doing."

"All right," Sherlock whispered.

"You're not disgusting. You're beautiful."

"Stop it."

"Never."

They stayed on the couch for a long while. Eventually Greg got up to stick the curry in the microwave. He got Sherlock to eat a few bites while they sat and watched telly. Just like normal people.

"So how bout it then?" Greg asked as he settled down with another beer.

"What?"

"Are we going to give this thing a try?"

"I suppose so. Though like I said, it's probably going to be a disaster."

"Yeah, well, at least it won't be boring."

Sherlock moved a bit closer. All but draping himself over Greg. "Don't call me your boyfriend," he said in his usual condescending tone. "I don't like it. It sounds too juvenile."

"What should I call you then?"

"Partner, lover, consort, I don't care."

Greg snorted. Their relationship wasn't simple. It probably never would be. Part of him would always be a bit jealous over all the people who'd had Sherlock before. But the fact that Sherlock was _his, e_ven just for a little while, was more than enough to make things worth it.

* * *

_Special thanks to **Shadowfire RavenPheonix **__who reminded me that I wanted to tie some of my stories together. I've been awake for nearly twenty four hours straight. Woohoooo! I might write some more of Sherlock's videos at some point. I don't know. _

_Fun fact. I posted this on coffee shop wifi because my internet is broken. If they only knew why I'd asked for the internet password. If they only knew._


	25. Changing Quietly

_Fair warning: here we are. There were cries for **sex in public**. These cries were heard. Also, you know. Sex toys. General depravity. My usual sunday afternoon._

* * *

Really, it hadn't occurred to Greg to ask exactly _why_ Sherlock had dragged him into a Harrods on a Sunday afternoon. He'd guessed it was for a case or something. Usually Sherlock got annoyed when he asked too many questions. It was better to just wait for him to explain.

But there didn't appear to be any crime scene or suspicious activity. It just looked like a normal department store.

Sherlock walked to the men's section and Greg followed dutifully, perhaps dragging his feet just a bit. He hadn't slept very much the past week. Even though Sherlock had found a new flat, he'd only half moved in. Greg would never complain about all the sex. Lord knows. But Sherlock liked to keep him up late and he couldn't, in good conscience, call off work because he was thoroughly shagged out.

Greg didn't start to suspect that they were simply out on a normal shopping trip until Sherlock began pulling shirts off the rack. He did so in a rather haphazard manner. Shoving most of the hangers at Greg to hold.

"Um… Sherlock?"

"Yes?" The younger man grunted, in a rather annoyed tone.

"Are we actually just here to buy clothes?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are we here?"

"You'll see."

Greg frowned slightly at that. It certainly looked like they were shopping. In his lethargic mental state, he had a rather difficult time coming up with other reasons why they might be there.

He didn't have too much time to think about it before Sherlock wandered off towards the changing rooms. Greg followed, carrying an armful of silk shirts, and feeling more than a bit out of place. His wife used to do this to him when they first got married. She'd drag him along everywhere. He didn't want to think about how many hours of his life he'd spent in department stores, looking bored and out of place.

They arrived at the changing rooms. Sherlock smiled politely at the thin, rather severe looking woman behind the counter and informed her that he had six shirts to try on. She narrowed her eyes, but gave him a plastic number six and nodded in the right direction.

Sherlock caught hold of Greg's arm and pulled him along.

Greg expected to wait outside the door while Sherlock did… whatever it was he planned on doing here.

But they turned a corner in the hallway and Sherlock tugged him inside a changing cubicle and closed the door behind them. Sherlock crowded Greg up against the wall and before the DI could establish exactly what had happened, Sherlock kissed him. Deep. Slow. Utterly sinful.

Greg let go of the various clothes hangers and they dropped to the ground with a muffled clatter. Sherlock didn't seem to mind in the slightest. He pressed up against Greg a bit closer.

He tasted like menthol cigarettes. He'd switched recently, supposedly because he disliked menthol, and was trying to cut back on his smoking.

He smelled like Greg's aftershave. Like his shampoo. Like the combined scents of Greg's flat had rubbed off on him permanently after their short period of near-constant cohabitation.

Though Greg knew it was silly, it made his heart swell with a strange brand of possessive affection.

He draped his arms around Sherlock's slim waist and lost himself in the moment. In the absolute ridiculousness of what his life had become. After all, he'd never snogged anybody in a Harrods changing room before. And what was life if not for new experiences?

Sherlock slowly trailed his hands down Greg's torso until they rested on his belt buckle. He grinned against Greg's mouth.

"Think we can be quiet?" Sherlock barely whispered.

It clicked into place a few seconds to late. Or rather, Greg had plenty of time to put the brakes on, but they'd already passed the point where he _wanted_ to stop.

"I think I can," Greg grinned, "but you're a bit of a moaner."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and slid down to his knees. He mouthed at Greg's stiffening cock through the fabric of his trousers. It probably hadn't been the best idea to throw any fuel onto the fire. After all, Sherlock was quite competitive.

But then Sherlock unbuckled Greg's belt, unzipped his trousers and pulled his cock out. Greg found it difficult to care about anything the second his prick slid between Sherlock's lips.

It didn't take long at all for his cock to fully harden. Sherlock let the drool run down his chin, sucking Greg off sloppily. He went slowly enough to both minimize the obscene noises and torture Greg immensely.

The DI bit his lip and fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair. He tried to focus on breathing. On not drowning in the near overwhelming wash of sensation. Sherlock let Greg's cock hit the back of his throat.

Somehow, knowing he couldn't make noise just made it that much more difficult to stay quiet.

Sherlock pulled back and laved his tounge against the underside of the glans. Greg coughed to hide the tiny groan that escaped.

Greg pulled up on Sherlock's hair sharply. Not enough to really hurt. But enough to get the point across. Sherlock pulled back all the way and looked up at Greg with a little glint in his eye. He smirked and got back on his feet.

He leaned against Greg so he could whisper in his ear.

"Would you like to know what I did before we came here?" He asked breathlessly.

"What?"

Sherlock unzipped his trousers and let them slide down around his thighs. He took Greg's hand and guided Greg's fingers until they slid between his arse cheeks. Greg trailed downwards, along the rather familiar path, until he encountered something different.

Something plastic, and slick around the edges.

The base of an anal plug?

"What a filthy boy," Greg murmured, "did you get yourself ready for me?"

"I thought we might economize a bit on time. After all, people usually don't take half an hour to try on a few shirts."

Greg ran his finger around the rim of Sherlock's arsehole. The younger man squirmed slightly. The DI took a moment to marvel at the fact that Sherlock had managed to walk normally on their short stroll through the store.

Then he grasped the flared base of the plug and tugged gently.

Sherlock's head fell to Greg's shoulder. He started panting, but the noise mostly got muffled in the fabric of Greg's jacket.

The plug was wide but not very long. Sherlock's body clenched around it, but eventually released it without too much of a fuss. Greg wasn't particularly sure what to do with the thing once he got it out, so he tossed it in the far corner.

He slid his fingers between Sherlock's arse cheeks once again to tease at his fluttering hole. Sherlock jerked against him, accidentally rubbing their cocks together. Greg suppressed a groan.

Greg slid two fingers inside Sherlock easily. He was slick, stretched, so fucking ready. Sherlock dug into his blazer pocket and produced another packet of lube. He tore it open with his teeth, squeezed it onto his hand and smeared it onto Greg's prick.

"How do you want me?" He murmured.

"Hands against the wall."

Sherlock turned around and braced himself against the opposite wall, arse out, legs spread. Greg stood behind him, one hand wrapped around Sherlock's bony hip. He positioned his cock and sank into Sherlock slowly.

God. It was fucking perfect. Sherlock let out a tiny gasp as Greg slid all the way in. They stood perfectly still for a few moments. Just breathing in synch with each other.

Greg withdrew ever so slightly, before thrusting back in.

The DI's belt buckle clinked with the motion. He bit his lip as he pulled the belt off. He pondered tossing it aside, but settled instead for looping it around Sherlock's neck and pulling it tight.

He obviously caught the younger man a bit off guard. Sherlock jumped slightly. But then Greg tugged the belt just a bit tighter. Enough to put some pressure on Sherlock's windpipe, but not enough to cut off his air supply entirely.

Sherlock pushed back against his cock pointedly.

Greg established a slow rhythm. He kept one hand on Sherlock's hip, while he kept up the steady pressure on the belt. Sherlock met his motions haphazardly. Trying to get him to go faster.

Greg let the belt go slack for a few moments, only to pull it tight again. Tight enough to keep Sherlock from breathing.

He counted to twenty before letting it go loose.

Sherlock panted as quietly as he could.

Part of Greg certainly wanted to hear him moan and carry on the way he usually did. He could almost feel the tension in Sherlock's body. He could sense the effort of holding all those noises in.

Then again, getting kicked out of a Harrods, and being arrested for lewdness weren't really at the top of his list in terms of things he wanted to happen. Hell, it could ruin his career. A DI getting caught having sex in public…

But then Sherlock shifted, straightened up just a bit, and pushed back against Greg more firmly. A small, choked sound escaped his lips.

Greg burned up from the inside out. He nipped at Sherlock's neck and started to pick up speed.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, "_fuck._"

"Shhhh. Do you want us to get caught?" Greg breathed against his ear.

No response.

"I bet you do," Greg continued, in the same barely audible tone. "You filthy little slut. I bet you'd love it. I bet we'd make the papers. It'd be a huge public scandal."

Sherlock turned his head to press a quick kiss against Greg's cheek. "Then they'd all know I'm yours, Sir."

Something lurched inside Greg's stomach. Jesus. He pulled the belt tight again, choking Sherlock just so he could get a minute to collect himself. He counted to thirty this time. When he let the leather slack again, Sherlock wobbled. Greg held onto him. Kept him upright. Never stopped his steady thrusts.

"Is everything all right in there?" A high-pitched female voice drifted from the other side of the door.

Greg froze.

Shit.

"Yep, fine," he replied, as soon as he found his breath. His voice came out rushed and just a bit frantic.

"Can I get anything for you?"

Sherlock, apparently miffed that Greg had stopped moving began to roll his hips and fuck himself on Greg's cock. The DI let out a long steadying breath.

"No, thank you."

He bit his lip to keep from groaning. He didn't hear any footsteps. He couldn't really over the carpeting. He just thanked god that the door went all the way to the ground. If the woman standing on the other side had been able to see the two pairs of feet, they would have been done for.

One of Sherlock's hands dropped from its place on the wall to wrap around his own cock. It didn't even look like Sherlock was still breathing. His motions became a bit more fevered. Must be getting close.

Oh god.

Greg couldn't stop. Sherlock's every motion was heaven. So hot and tight…

A sharp intake of breath. Sherlock clenched down around Greg. The DI clapped a hand over Sherlock's mouth to keep in any nosie that he couldn't contain. The younger man shivered. All but falling back into Greg as he came.

It was entirely too much to handle. The contractions of Sherlock's muscles. The adrenaline rush. The very real possibility of being caught. Greg couldn't hold out a second longer. The heat that had been writhing inside him bubbled to the surface. The tension released. He bit down on Sherlock's neck at the last second to contain the noise.

The pleasure coursed through him like an electric shock as he came into Sherlock's arse.

They stayed still for a minute. Trying to catch their breath. Greg's cock began to soften. He slid out of Sherlock and tucked himself back into his trousers. They were quite a sight. Sherlock hair had gotten slightly frizzy. His usually pristine suit looked rumpled. Greg's clothes were no better.

Greg gathered up the shirts he'd dropped on the floor and hung them. Sherlock pulled a few tissues out of his pocket and cleaned himself up as best he could. He started to pull up his trousers, but Greg stopped him.

"Hold on there," the DI said in a low voice as a lazy grin began to spread across his face. "I think we're forgetting something."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly and he opened his mouth, probably to say something petulant. Greg just nodded towards the corner of the room. Sherlock followed his gaze to the anal plug lying in the corner.

The younger man let out a barely audible sound. High pitched and choked off. He licked his lips and nodded. Greg didn't even have to give the order. Sherlock got back into position with his hands against the wall all by himself.

Greg bent and grabbed the plug. The plastic still felt slick. Good.

He pressed the tapered end of the black plastic against Sherlock's arsehole. The younger man let out a few long breaths. His body gave easily. The plug began to slide in, gradually forcing Sherlock's muscles to stretch around it.

Even though he'd just come, a pang of arousal shot through Greg's body.

The plug slid all the way in. Sherlock straightened up, wincing slightly, and zipped up his trousers.

They exited the changing room. Thankfully, the woman was no longer standing directly outside the door. She glowered at them as they returned the shirts, but said nothing. They walked out of the Harrods freely, though Sherlock's gait was a bit awkward.

They stood outside on the curb, trying to hail a cab. Greg leaned close.

"How's it feel to have my come sealed inside you like that?"

Sherlock shuddered visibly. "It's very nice, Sir."

"I think we should add some more when we get home, don't you?"

"Please."

And just like that, Sherlock planted a quick kiss on Greg's lips. Right there, in the middle of the street. Like it was natural. Instinctive. The second the younger man pulled away, he looked a bit shocked. As if he hadn't thought it through.

Greg couldn't do much but grin like an idiot.

Somehow they'd fallen into a strange balance of sweet domesticity and utter twisted perversion.

He wouldn't trade it for anything.

* * *

_I know. I know. I went two whole weeks without updating. Pretty much, University started back up again and I needed a week to have a panic attack about all the work before I settled back into the swing of things._

_Also my band had a show and they kept screaming at me to come to practice. So between work, school, and the rock and roll lifestyle, I haven't actually been at my house that much._

_So there you have it. _

_I can't promise for certain that these updates will happen weekly. But know that if I miss a week here or there, it doesn't mean that I plan to stop forever._

_I love all of you. I love this ship. We shall sail happily into the smutty sunset together._

_xoxo_


End file.
